Chapter Text
# Part 1: "Colin Morgan"
I can't believe it! Now I have to go see James?!
Recalling James's grinning face and that sarcastic tone of his, I blinked my eyes in frustration and nodded at Anderson, who was saying something about the connection between the two cases.
Anderson was a good boss—truly one in a thousand at his job—but occasionally he used strange methods to advance his people.
At first, it wasn't that strange. James was the detective on the case that I'd managed to find a connection to my own. But gradually, things got worse.
James, after Anderson's call, quickly entered Anderson's office.
I was leaning against the wall, watching James's stature as he walked in after knocking:
Bradley James, nearly thirty years old, the brainless FBI detective with that British accent, blond hair, and that leather jacket of his that hugged his athletic build—and that... damn smirk! Ugh, that damn smirk could make me throw myself off a cliff. And he especially flashes it at me just to annoy me more.
I think it's pretty obvious I don't like him—maybe I even hate him!
But hate is too simple a word. There was something about James that made me uncomfortable in ways I couldn't explain. Maybe it was his confidence—the way he walked into a room like he owned it, like the world owed him something. Or maybe it was how easily people trusted him. He never had to prove himself; they just... believed in him. Meanwhile, I had to fight for every scrap of respect I ever got. And that made him dangerous—not because he was smarter than me (he wasn't), but because he had something I didn't: the ability to make people like him without even trying. And in this department, that kind of charm could take you further than any amount of hard work.
James greeted Anderson as soon as he entered. Anderson stood up and shook his hand. Then James looked at me with those stupid blue eyes, flashed that smirk again, and said: "Colin!"
I don't know how he knew I never liked being called by my first name!
Irritated, I said: "James!"
And then I shook his hand firmly—hard enough that our knuckles turned white.
James smirked mischievously and stepped back from me.
Anderson, with his usual serious yet respectful tone, said: "Please, both of you, sit down."
Reluctantly, we both sat on the chairs across from Anderson.
Anderson began: "Well, I don't know if you're aware, but this department needs revision. You're both excellent detectives and have closed good cases. I hope you can close this one successfully too."
Anderson turned to James: "I told you that Morgan managed to find a strange connection between two cases—which happen to be in each of your hands."
James said: "Yeah, I received the fax."
Then he turned to me and with that smirk said: "Good job, Morgan. That was excellent!"
Gritting my teeth, staring at him, I said sarcastically: "Thank you, sir!"
James chuckled briefly and turned back to Anderson: "It seems there's a strange connection between Colin's amateur killer and my professional killer."
Ignoring the fact that James was sitting right next to me, I began explaining: "Beneath the killer's initial amateur stitching, we found a more professional stitch. It's more like the killer first tried out of habit to do a good stitch, then took on a secondary role and slipped into his amateur persona. The murder pattern matches what an amateur killer would do, but the underlying stitch shows we're dealing with a professional who suffers from dissociative identity disorder."
James nodded seriously and said: "And because of the silver nitrate residue accidentally found on some of the victims, you were able to connect these two cases."
I nodded in confirmation and said: "One victim from my case and one victim from yours."
James nodded again.
James was more tolerable when he was serious. But the rest of the time, he was a clown through and through, with a hollow head that had probably climbed this high through connections.
I tried to explain it better:
"The victims in the "Bad Student" case look like a medical student is trying to perform experiments on people. He doesn't exactly fail, but his victims become useless to him. He's mostly trying to remove organs and put them back inside the body—the killer stitches the bodies unprofessionally to present the police with an intact corpse. He's not afraid of exposing the bodies. He's narcissistic and believes he won't give himself away. And on top of that, he's a psychopath."
James said: "So this 'Bad Student' is the other side of our killer?"
I said: "Yes, exactly. The more professional side of the killer—relating to an expert surgeon—is a cold-blooded but narcissistic killer. Just like the Bad Student side. The Anatomist is a professional killer who removes the internal organs of each victim for himself. He's a smarter side with specific goals. It matters to him that the body is delivered to the police packaged and tidy, just like the victims of his other side. This side of the killer also doesn't think he's likely to get caught. These two sides behave very similarly, even though their methods differ."
James asked: "What's his purpose in taking trophies?"
I said: "I don't know exactly. I can't tell. But he might be selling the organs to someone."
James fell into thought.
Anderson, who was now listening carefully, said: "We're going to share the details of this case with the rest of the colleagues at the Coordination Meeting."
After our conversation with Anderson ended, and we had presented the general points and reached a conclusion, Anderson dismissed us.
Tomorrow morning, we would have to explain these connections to the entire team, and from then on, the case would take a different direction.
I could see a very deep connection between these two cases, and there were highly convincing details suggesting that the killer in both cases was the same person. But there was something about the killer that I didn't understand. In fact, there was a question that hadn't even crossed my mind. But I knew that question had to exist.
***
Anderson walked into the bullpen with a file in his hand and a look on his face that I knew too well. The kind of look that said: *I've just come from a meeting, and nothing good came out of it.*
The room fell silent as he stood at the front. James was leaning against my desk, arms crossed, that stupid leather jacket creaking with every shift of his weight. I was trying to ignore him and focus on my notes, but Anderson's presence pulled my attention like a magnet.
Anderson cleared his throat and said: "Listen up, everyone."
He paused, scanning the room.
He continued: "I've just come from a briefing with the higher-ups. The good news is they've confirmed what Morgan here already figured out—the two cases are connected."
James glanced at me with something between surprise and annoyance. I didn't return the look.
Anderson went on: "The bad news is... they're calling this a possible 'fragmented identity' killer. You know what that means?"
No one answered. But I knew. We all did. A fragmented identity killer—Dissociative Identity Disorder, multiple personalities—meant the perpetrator wasn't just clever. He was unpredictable. Erratic. Impossible to profile with standard methods. The kind of killer who could switch from amateur to professional in the span of a single breath, leaving behind a trail of contradictory evidence that made no sense to anyone but himself.
Anderson said: "It means this case just got three times harder. And we don't have three times the time. Four murders in a month. The public is getting nervous, and the brass wants results—fast."
James spoke up: "So what do you want us to do?"
Anderson looked at both of us. Then he dropped the bomb.
"I want you two to work separately."
I blinked. "What?"
James straightened up from my desk. "You want us to *not* work together? That's insane. We're closing in on a connection—"
Anderson raised his hand and cut him off: "I'm not finished."
He paused, letting his words sink in. Then he said: "I want you both to compete. Whoever brings me a solid lead that leads to an arrest first will become the senior detective in this department. The other will transfer to county."
For a moment, neither of us spoke. I felt the weight of his words pressing down on my chest.
James was the first to break the silence: "You're pitting us against each other?"
Anderson said: "I'm pushing you both to your limits. This department needs leadership—someone who can think fast and close cases faster. I've seen you work separately. I've never seen what happens when you're both fighting for something. I want to see that now."
James opened his mouth to argue. Anderson cut him off again: "That's not a request."
James closed his mouth and looked at me. I could feel his eyes boring into the side of my head. I refused to look back.
Anderson said: "You both have a week to bring me something solid. After that, we're out of time. Dismissed."
He turned and walked back into his office, closing the door behind him.
The room was silent. Everyone was pretending not to stare at us.
James stepped closer to me and said in a low voice: "a week, Morgan. I hope you're ready to lose."
I finally looked at him. He had that smirk on his face again—that stupid, infuriating smirk that made me want to shove him through a wall.
I said calmly: "I don't lose, James. Especially not to you."
He chuckled and walked away, leaving me alone at my desk with the weight of the competition pressing down on my shoulders.
I stared at the files spread out before me—photos of victims, reports, the stitch marks, the silver nitrate traces. Somewhere out there, a killer was playing a game. And now, so was I.
The question was: who would make the next move?