Gordon's POV 1

Standing at the edge of the crime scene, I couldn't shake the chill running down my spine. The alley was illuminated by the strobing lights of police cruisers, casting long, eerie shadows on the walls. Another body lay cold and lifeless on the ground, a middle-aged man who, by all accounts, had been perfectly sane until tonight. This was the third **** in three weeks, and the pattern was becoming disturbingly clear.

The victim's hands were covered in blood, a grim testament to the brutal attack he'd unleashed on an unsuspecting passerby. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. The brutality of these crimes was like nothing I'd seen in years, but it wasn't just the **** that unnerved me—it was the aftermath. Every one of these murderers had been a seemingly ordinary person, suddenly snapping and committing an unthinkable act.

"Scarecrow" The name had been mumbled, shouted, and cried out by every one of them. I'd dismissed it as a coincidence or the delusion of a madman, but now, with three separate cases all linked.

I walked over to the nearest officer, who was trying to calm a witness—a woman, trembling and pale. Her eyes were wide with terror as she recounted what she'd seen. "He just snapped," she kept repeating, her voice shaky. "One moment, he was fine, and then... then he wasn't. He just kept sceaming 'Scarecrow, Scarecrow' over and over." She trailed off into incoherent wails and sobs.

The urgency of the situation hit me like a ton of bricks. This wasn't just random ****; it was deliberate, calculated. Someone—or something—was inducing this madness, and the idea of a serial killer using psychological manipulation to turn ordinary people into killers was terrifying. We needed answers, and we needed them fast.

Without wasting another moment, I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I'd been relying on more and more recently. Edward Nygma was one of the sharpest minds I'd ever encountered, a detective consultant with an uncanny ability to see patterns and solve puzzles. If anyone could help us make sense of these brutal killings, it was him.

"Nygma," I said as soon as he picked up, "I need you at the scene, now. We've got another one, and it's the same MO.

As I hung up, I couldn't help but feel the weight of the situation pressing down on me. If this gets out to the public, there will be hell to pay. With Nygma on his way, I could only hope that we'd start to find some answers—before the madness spread any further.