CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Father sat in his dim living room, the afternoon sun barely penetrating the heavy curtains. His eyes were fixed on the television screen, where Samantha Chen, Coldwater's most prominent news anchor, was delivering the latest update on the case. Her sleek black hair and crisp blue blazer were immaculate, perfectly arranged.

"...and police are still searching for leads in the case of the so-called 'Coldwater Confessor'," she was saying, her voice carrying just a hint of tension beneath its professional veneer. "Sources close to the investigation suggest that the killer may be targeting individuals based on perceived moral transgressions. However, the recent murder of Rachel Kim, a known atheist, has thrown this theory into question."

The Father leaned forward, interested. They knew more than he'd anticipated. The police were proving to be more capable than he'd given them credit for.

Samantha continued, her dark eyes looking directly into the camera. "Sheriff Dawson had this to say at this morning's press conference."

The screen cut to footage of Sheriff Dawson, his face set in determination as he addressed a crowd of reporters. "We are pursuing all leads and will not rest until this killer is brought to justice. We urge the public to remain vigilant and report any suspicious activity immediately."

The Father allowed himself a small smile at the moniker they'd given him. They really had no idea why he was doing all this, did they?

He hadn't planned for these cleansings to become so public, to garner such attention. He was simply fulfilling his mission, not looking for acclaim. Still…there had to be a way to leverage the situation, didn't there?

The Father stood, pacing the room as his mind blossomed with possibilities. This platform, this attention—it was an opportunity. A chance to spread his message further, to make more people understand the importance of his work.

Yes, he decided, nodding to himself. It was time to take control of the narrative. To show them all the true purpose behind his actions.

He moved to his desk, opening a drawer and carefully removing an object. It was a vintage ink stamp, its handle worn smooth with age. The stamp itself was in the shape of a crucifix surrounded by a halo of thorns.

The Father held the stamp up to the light, admiring its craftsmanship. Yes, this would do just nicely. This would prove his identity—

And let everyone know he wasn't going to hide in the shadows. He had a message for the world…and he was going to tell it using the biggest microphone possible.

Death itself.