“All available officers in the vicinity of Grove and Washington, fire at Saint Mary Cathedral. Multiple injured. Arson. One attacker.” — Police Dispatch.

By the time I got there, the damage had already been done. The surviving nuns claim they saw an angel dragging the so called “guilty” into the flames. Witnesses claimed another angel intervened.

Now, one of the “angels” turns up in the morgue, wings still smoking.

All I could hope is that this dead angel was the bad one. If not, I figure heaven might be under new management. But as soon as I got a look at the angels face, I knew what I was dealing with— one of the fallen.

I figured if a third of them were kicked out of heaven, they all had to go somewhere. Just another reason Pale City is such a nice place to live. The fallen angel's body wasn’t just charred by fire— it was painted by evil.

One down.

Many to go.

Case Closed.

My name is Detective Vale. Things like this used to surprise me. It was evil— like everything else I find in this town. It's my job to put the pieces together— no matter how petty or supernatural.

By morning, Pale City had already found something new to be afraid of. A new case. This case is extreme evil— enhanced by a microphone.

The case I’m working on now has the entire city on edge. The latest crime scene mimics the Zodiac Killer. A coded letter was left for police, and the use of the same signature symbol. Same sick bravado.

There was a copycat killer on the loose. Some maniac recreating the methods of infamous murderers. But this time, every killing coincided with the latest episode of a true-crime podcast: Under Oath: Serial Killer’s Among Us.

The podcast stories didn’t just inform—they invited. The show’s popularity had grown fast. Too fast. It started with detailed breakdowns of historic crime scenes. At first, I figured it was the usual motive: a small guy trying to look big.

Then fans started noticing the pattern.

An episode drops.

A body turns up.

Every time.

I declared the podcast studio a crime scene.

When I seized it, the host— Elias Crowe— showed mixed emotions. Calm on the surface. Slippery underneath. His ratings had skyrocketed with every new episode… and every new murder.

It all meant dollar signs to him. Greed— just another reason to kill.

Lila Moreno— the so-called producer. From what I could tell, Elias didn’t keep her around for her production skills. Or lack thereof.

She claimed the podcast exposed corruption law enforcement couldn’t touch. Said she wanted the killer caught. Said she hated what the show had become. But she needed the money.

They were having an affair. I could tell. Neither of them wanted to expose that truth. Secrecy mattered to two people living separate married lives. I just couldn’t tell if it was more than lust keeping them together.

Money talks and money kills.

Then there was Marcus Hale—the podcast’s largest sponsor. He paid for everything: studio rent, equipment, furnishings, advertising. And the money kept increasing. After every murder.

Like performance bonuses.

The payouts didn’t just go to Elias. It was going to Lila too. They showed no signs of stopping. It was motive, even if it wasn’t much.

Marcus was shady, but I couldn’t picture him recreating the work of Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, BTK, or any of the other monsters. Elias, though? Elias could be bought.

Create the podcast. Inspire the killings. Boost publicity. That’s a quick path to riches. But the formula changed.

The copycat killings became almost daily. Sometimes Elias and Lila had alibis. Sometimes they didn’t. I put them under surveillance. I wanted to know the new place where the podcast was being recorded—and whether murder was one of their latest hobbies.

But, then they vanished. And so did the podcast. I expected the killings to stop too. They didn’t.

Marcus claimed ignorance. Before I left his apartment, I thanked him for his cooperation. He was in on it—I just didn’t know how deep.

Then I found a name on Elias’s confiscated laptop. One listener stood out. Obsessive amounts of fan mail. Long messages. Detailed instructions. Demands that future episodes be released in a specific order.

The diehard fan—Jonah Pike.

I brought him in for questioning. Didn’t get far. He lived in his own head. But one thing was clear—he knew too much. Details about the copycat murders. Mistakes made at crime scenes.

Details not released to the public. Details only the killer would know. That was enough evidence I needed—until something happened, something I didn't expect.

Another killing happened while Jonah was sitting across from me.

The moment I was informed of this I thought maybe it wasn’t a dead end— maybe he was an accomplice. Or maybe he was just another upstanding citizen of this cold grimy city.

The latest copycat killing was done by the same guy. I could tell. Forensics had nothing to go on. No witnesses, no DNA, no clue what so ever on who, how, or why?

These victims of these crimes were brutal. An each of their deaths nawled at me as the night went on. I drove Pale City for hours. The details and photos of crime scenes lay in the seat next to me. The more I knew about how serial killers killed the better I would be at catching them.

But the more I studied, the darker this world seemed.

I drove past old crime scenes I’d memorized. Places where monsters of this "podcast copycat" once worked. Hoping I could stop whoever was doing this. Hoping—desperately—I could stop the next one before it happened.

There were scenes this copycat had yet to duplicate. And there were places yet to become a crime scene.

Then I found it. The copycat of the "Hillside Strangler." Bodies left on the wooded hillsides surrounding the edge of the city.

By the time I arrived, it was too late. The victims— dead— publicly displayed. But the killer was still there. The problem is it wasn't who I expected— It wasn’t human.

It was the other angel the nuns spoke of.

The nuns had it wrong. An angel of light? In Pale City?

Not a chance.

They were both fallen angels. Evil. Twisted. My guess? One of them said the wrong thing at the wrong time. Before they knew it, they were trying to destroy each other. On the night of the cathedral fire— one of them lost.

I followed it as long as I could as it flew away. By the time I got deeper into the city, I lost it through the towering cityscape.

I went to Marcus’s apartment out of instinct. I could hear the something on the other side— something not human.

I kicked open the door but Marcus was already dead.

Money littered the floor of his luxury condo. The fallen angel looked back at me and laughed. It said humans will do anything for money.

I emptied my magazine into it. Didn’t do much good. It spread its wings and vanished into the night. The crime scene didn’t end there.

In another room, Elias and Lila lay dead. Bound. Tortured. Executed exactly like the killers they glorified. On the wall above them, written in blood:

BTK.

Pale City went quiet after that. The podcast stopped. The murders stopped. Maybe bullets can take down a fallen angel or maybe it just flew back down to hell with the rest of its friends.

People might call it justice. In this city, evil doesn’t need encouragement. It just needs someone willing to listen. Someone— or Some Thing.