Chapter 1: A Scene from Fiction
Daniel Mercer’s morning started with a knock on his door.
Not the polite kind.
The kind that said, open up or we break it down.
The moment he unlocked it, two men in dark suits pushed inside, badges flashing. Detective Alan Roarke—broad-shouldered, late fifties, the weight of his career hanging on him like an ill-fitted coat—stood at the center. Beside him, Detective Julia Kane, younger, sharper, and far less patient.
“Mr. Mercer,” Roarke said. “We need to talk.”
Mercer, still groggy from last night’s whiskey, rubbed his eyes. “About?”
Kane handed him a photo. He sobered immediately.
A woman. Her throat slashed. Her body posed in a chair, hands clasped as if in prayer. The exact crime scene from Chapter 14 of his book, Midnight Consequence.
Mercer felt his stomach drop. “Jesus.”
“You recognize it?” Roarke asked.
“Yes. Because I wrote it.”
Kane’s expression didn’t soften. “And yet, last night, someone acted it out.”
Roarke stepped forward. “Daniel Mercer, you are under arrest for the murder of Rebecca Harlow.”
Mercer’s blood went cold.
The real story had begun.
Chapter 2: The Artist at Work
The interrogation room smelled like sweat and stale coffee. Mercer sat opposite Roarke, while Kane circled him like a predator.
“Let’s start simple,” Roarke said. “Where were you last night between 10 PM and midnight?”
“At home,” Mercer said. “Writing.”
Kane leaned in. “Alone?”
“Yes.”
She smirked. “Convenient.”
Roarke slid a file across the table. “Three murders in the past month. Each one staged like a scene from your books. A coincidence?”
Mercer opened it. Three victims. Three of his stories.
“I swear to you, I didn’t do this,” Mercer said, voice tight.
Roarke studied him. “Then who did?”
Mercer exhaled. “Someone who wants to frame me.”
Kane crossed her arms. “Then tell us—who hates you enough to kill for it?”
Mercer hesitated.
The list was longer than he liked to admit.
Chapter 3: A Trail of Ink and Blood
Released on bail, Mercer returned home to find his apartment trashed.
Manuscripts shredded. Books thrown from shelves. A single page pinned to his wall.
A scene from his unpublished manuscript.
Mercer’s pulse pounded. The killer had been here.
And worse—they had access to something no one else should.
He grabbed his phone and dialed. Jason Whitaker. His editor.
Jason answered on the second ring. “Daniel, the hell is going on? The news is calling you ‘The Artist’—”
“Someone got into my unpublished work,” Mercer cut in. “Who has copies?”
“Just me. And… the publisher. And…” Jason hesitated.
“And?” Mercer pressed.
Jason sighed. “My assistant, Chloe.”
Chloe. Young, ambitious. And the one who always pushed for darker, more violent twists in his books.
Mercer’s gut clenched. Was it possible?
He needed to find out. Fast.
Because if the killer was following his drafts—the next murder hadn’t happened yet.
Chapter 4: The Next Chapter
Chloe lived in a small apartment downtown. Mercer arrived at her door, heart pounding.
She opened it, surprised. “Daniel?”
He pushed inside. “Did you leak my manuscript?”
She blinked. “What? No!”
Mercer studied her. She seemed… confused. Not defensive.
“Someone’s using my book to stage murders,” he said. “And they have access to drafts only a few people have seen.”
Chloe paled. “Are you saying—? Oh, God.”
Her hands shook as she grabbed her phone. “Jason. I sent him pages last week for feedback.”
Mercer’s breath caught. Jason.
His best friend. His editor.
His biggest fan.
And the only person who knew every twist before the world did.
Chapter 5: The Final Draft
Jason Whitaker’s office was empty. Papers scattered. Computer screens black.
And on his desk—a note.
Mercer picked it up, dread settling deep.
A writer should know how his story ends, Daniel.
You should come see for yourself.
An address was scrawled below.
Mercer knew what this meant. Jason wanted him to witness the final act.
With Roarke and Kane close behind, Mercer arrived at an abandoned warehouse. Inside, Rebecca Harlow’s body had been posed again.
Only this time, Jason sat beside it, gun in hand.
He smiled. “Ah, Daniel. I knew you’d understand.”
Mercer’s skin crawled. “You did all this?”
Jason sighed, as if disappointed. “I perfected your stories. Made them real.”
“You killed innocent people,” Mercer growled.
Jason tilted his head. “Did I? Or did we?”
Roarke stepped forward. “It’s over, Whitaker.”
Jason chuckled. “Is it?”
He raised the gun.
A single shot rang out.
Jason Whitaker slumped forward, blood pooling beneath him.
The final chapter had been written.
Epilogue: The Writer’s Legacy
A week later, Mercer sat before a blank page.
Jason’s crimes had made him infamous. His books skyrocketed in sales.
But his hands trembled over the keyboard.
Because in the end, Jason had been right about one thing.
A writer should know how his story ends.
Mercer just didn’t know if he could write again.
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