《Final Moments [A LitRPG Mystery]》


 Chapter 1: The Art of Death

    The late November wind carried the scent of fallen leaves and cheap beer as I pulled up to Blakemore University''s most notorious frat house, Kappa Delta Kappa. The Red and gold banners declaring "Go Badgers!" drooped from second-story windows were legendary when I attended college here. The outdoor solar party lights still twinkled despite the pre-dawn darkness.


    My radio crackled. "All units be advised, powered individual spotted near Fifth and Main. Suspect described as flying... correction, attempting to fly by jumping off parked cars. Appears to be intoxicated and yelling ''I believe I can fly''"


    I clicked the radio off and rested my forehead against the steering wheel. Three a.m. calls were bad enough without R. Kelly''s greatest hits as accompaniment. At least the coffee in my "World''s Okayest Detective" mug hadn''t gone cold yet.


    Marcus waited on the frost-covered lawn, his crisp suit somehow immaculate even at this ungodly hour. His pocket notebook was already in hand, pen poised like a conductor ready for his orchestra.


    "Morning, Kay," he said, matching my trudge up the walkway. "Hope you didn''t have plans for breakfast. This one''s... artistic."


    I raised an eyebrow. Marcus''s use of words like "artistic" before sunrise was never good. "Define artistic."


    He shook his head, flipping through his notes. "Three victims, positioned like¡­ sculptures. Crime scene techs are calling it ''Frat Boy With a Pearl Earring.''"


    "Please tell me they''re not actually-"


    "Making art jokes? They''ve moved on to analyzing the killer''s use of negative space." Marcus''s mouth tightened. "It''s been a long night for some of them. Second murder tonight."


    This surprised me. ¡°Who got the first call?¡±


    ¡°Terry and Tom were up next on the board.¡±


    I smirked at this. ¡°T and T on the case. I hope it''s a hard one.¡±


    Marcus looked down at his notebook. ¡°You better hope. They are two solves ahead of us this month and I don''t think I can stand them gloating one more month.¡± He pauses and looks back at the front door of the frat house. ¡°This one won''t be easy¡­ but I know you can work your magic.¡±


    I flinched at the word ¡°magic,¡± but Marcus didn''t notice. Blue and red lights painted the white columns of Kappa Delta Kappa in alternating splashes of color. Through the windows, I could see forensics teams moving in careful patterns. Their camera flashes adding to the strobing effect.


    I took a final swig of coffee, straightened my jacket, and nodded to Marcus. Time to see what kind of masterpiece we were dealing with.


    The front door opened to silence. Not the expected silence of an empty house, but the artificial quiet of a staged scene. My boots squeaked against hardwood floors that shouldn''t have gleamed at three in the morning in a frat house.


    "Everything''s clean," Marcus muttered, running a finger along a spotless windowsill. "Like, ''mom''s coming to visit'' clean."


    The entrance hall stretched into the den, and memories hit me like a physical force. Eight years ago, I''d stumbled through these same rooms with Cass, dodging flying beer pong balls and navigating through crowds of sweaty students. Back then, the walls had been decorated with traffic signs of questionable origin.


    Now? The walls were pristine white, free of even thumbtack holes. No red cups littered the floor, no mysterious stains marked the carpet. Even the air smelled wrong ¨C antiseptic instead of the usual mixture of stale beer and axe body spray.


    The den opened up before us, and my breath caught. Three young men stood in a perfect triangle formation, their pale bodies almost luminescent under the harsh crime scene lights. Each posed like a classical statue ¨C one with arms raised skyward, another crouched as if preparing to run, the third with his head tilted back, arms spread wide.


    Their skin had taken on the grey-white sheen of marble, making the purple bruises and precise cuts across their torsos look almost like artistic flourishes. Each wore only plain white boxers, turning them into some twisted approximation of Greek statuary.


    Marcus flipped open his notebook, but I couldn''t look away from their faces. Three boys, probably juniors or seniors, frozen in a killer''s sick vision of art. The precision of their positioning made my skin crawl ¨C no ropes, no visible supports, yet they stood as if gravity had forgotten to claim them.


    Something about their poses tickled the back of my mind. The way their feet barely touched the ground, how their limbs held positions that should have collapsed under gravity. I''d seen this before, in a case file marked "unexplained" and buried in the archives. But mentioning that would only invite questions I couldn''t answer.


    Marcus circled the scene, his pen scratching against the paper. "No signs of struggle in the room itself. All three victims were killed elsewhere and arranged here." He paused, squinting at the crouched figure. "Time of death estimated between midnight and one AM is my guess."


    "Actually," a voice chirped from behind us, "I think it''s meant to represent the three stages of man." Officer Jamie Chen bounced on his heels, fresh-faced enthusiasm radiating off his rookie badge. "See how they''re positioned? It''s like that Picasso piece about-"


    "Chen," Marcus cut in, "unless Picasso left fingerprints, maybe focus on the perimeter sweep?"


    The front door''s hinges announced Dr. Harper''s arrival with a slow creak. He entered like a praying mantis in a lab coat - all angles and careful movements. The harsh crime scene lights caught the silver threading through his dark hair, creating a halo effect that didn''t match my impression of him. Eight months working together, and I still couldn''t shake the feeling that he enjoyed his job a little too much.


    Harper moved through the room like he was conducting a symphony of death, his long fingers tracing patterns in the air inches from each victim''s skin. The way he studied their poses reminded me of an art critic at a gallery opening, minus the wine glass and pretension.


    "Fascinating," he breathed, his pale gray eyes fixed on the muscular rigidity of the victim with raised arms. "The preservation of the poses is remarkable." He leaned in closer, his nose nearly touching the victim''s shoulder. "The bodies should have collapsed hours ago, yet here they stand, defying not just gravity but basic biology."


    His hand reached out, fingers extending toward the victim''s arm. Before he could make contact, Captain Briggs''s voice cut through the room like a steel blade.


    "Tell me this isn''t what I think it is." She stood in the doorway, radiating the kind of tension that made rookie officers suddenly remember urgent paperwork elsewhere. Her eyes locked onto the trio of victims, and her jaw clenched so tight I could practically hear her teeth grinding. "First the gallery downtown, now this? They''re getting bold, flaunting their powers right under our noses."


    Harper''s hand withdrew, and he straightened up, though he still towered over everyone in the room. "Captain, while there are certainly unusual elements-"


    "Unusual?" Briggs barked out a laugh that contained zero humor. "Doctor, I''ve been on the force for twenty-five years. The only thing that can hold bodies like this is something unnatural." She spat out the last word like it tasted bitter.


    I focused on my breathing, keeping my expression neutral¡ªjust another Tuesday in law enforcement.


    "Let''s stick to evidence," I said, proud of how steady my voice remained. "Dr. Harper, what else can you tell us about cause of death?"


    Harper circled the third victim ¨C the one with his head tilted back, arms spread wide. "Preliminary examination suggests asphyxiation." He pointed to the faint bruising around the victim''s throat, barely visible against the marble-white skin. "These marks here match a garrote or wire, but..." His frown deepened as he gestured to a series of precise cuts across the chest. "These wounds appear superficial, almost decorative, yet the blood patterns suggest they were made while the heart was still beating."


    He reached out to examine one of the cuts. The moment his latex-gloved finger made contact, all three bodies collapsed like marionettes with severed strings. The sickening thud of flesh hitting hardwood filled the room, followed by a wet rolling sound. The third victim''s head detached completely, spinning across the floor until it hit Marcus''s shoe.


    "Well." Harper straightened his glasses. "I suppose cause of death for this one is fairly obvious now. Decapitation." He pulled out his phone, thumb flying over the screen. "Though the clean severance suggests a powered ability rather than conventional means."


    "When can you start the autopsies?" I asked, trying to ignore how the head''s vacant eyes seemed to track my movement.


    "Not for a few days, I''m afraid." Harper sighed, still typing. "Budget cuts mean I''m flying solo in the morgue. And my shift ends in¡ª" he checked his watch "¡ªtwo hours. After that, I''m off until Monday. Unless..." He gestured at the bodies with his phone. "Our artist friend provides more material for study."


    The casual way he referred to potential future victims made my skin crawl, but I kept my expression neutral. At least his schedule meant the morgue would be empty tonight. Perfect timing for asking these victims some questions they couldn''t answer while alive.


    I forced myself to look at their faces again, knowing I''d be seeing them again soon ¨C under very different circumstances. The morgue would have answers that even Harper''s skilled hands couldn''t find. I just had to wait a few more hours to get them.


    ***


    Back at the station, I nursed my fourth coffee while pretending to study case files. The Homicide Division occupied the third floor''s west wing, a maze of desks separated by half-walls that did nothing to muffle the constant percussion of ringing phones and keyboard clicks. A collection of dead plants lined the window sills ¨C victims of too many double shifts and forgotten watering schedules.


    My computer screen reflected Marcus''s empty desk across from mine ¨C a meticulous workspace that made my cluttered corner look like a paper recycling explosion. His "World''s Most Thorough Detective" mug sat empty next to a stack of perfectly aligned notebooks. The clock on my desktop read 5:47 AM. Dr. Harper would be finishing his shift soon.


    I pulled up the morgue''s staff schedule, making a show of scrolling through unrelated reports whenever someone passed. Detective Terry Williams''s distinctive perfume ¨C a scent I''d dubbed "Eau de Too Much" ¨C wafted over my cubicle wall as she filed paperwork. Two desks over, Detective Tom Chen snored softly into his keyboard, still recovering from last night''s shift.


    The night shift was typically skeletal ¨C budget cuts had stripped us down quite a bit. The day shift had triple the detectives for keeping up appearances. But that ment that for another hour or so, this place would remain empty. Soon everyone would be completely away from the morgue. Away from the bodies. Away from any questions about why a homicide detective might be visiting after hours.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    My phone buzzed. Marcus''s text lit up the screen: "Neighbors heard nothing. College kids sleep like dead people." I winced at his choice of words. If he only knew what dead people were really like.


    On the bulletin board behind my desk, photos from our case fanned out like a twisted art gallery. The first thing I did when I arrived was print them off and get them on the board. Their faces joined the other faces of cases we had yet to solve this month, staring down at me while I pretended I couldn''t actually ask them who killed them.


    At 6:15, I watched Dr. Harper''s lanky frame cross the parking lot through my window. The morning sun caught his silver-streaked hair as he moved with that peculiar energy he always seemed to have. I waited another fifteen minutes, buying time in case he forgot something and came back.


    I gathered my things slowly, making a show of reviewing paperwork. Detective Williams walked past my desk, coat already on, her heels clicking a steady rhythm against the linoleum.


    "Calling it a day, Kay?"


    I forced a yawn. "Yeah. Can''t solve art crimes without beauty sleep."


    Not yet. But soon, I''d be having conversations with people who could.


    The sub basement always felt wrong on night shift. I always hated going down there. The fluorescent lights buzzed with a different tone. I stepped into the elevator, my footsteps echoing in the empty car. The doors closed with a cheerful ding that didn''t match the mood, and Cyndi Lauper''s "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" crackled through ancient speakers. Nothing like some 80s pop to accompany casual law breaking.


    Level B2: Morgue. The elevator announced it like it was just another floor, not the place where I broke several laws and risked everything I''d worked for. The halls stretched out empty and dim, emergency lights casting long shadows. My detective''s badge got me through two security doors, each beep of approval making my heart skip.


    The morgue itself lived up to every horror movie clich¨¦ ¨C cold metal surfaces, harsh lighting, and that underlying scent of industrial cleaners trying to mask what really happened here. Three gurneys waited, their occupants hidden under white sheets. A security camera blinked in the corner, its red light like an accusing eye.


    I moved through my usual routine. Disable the camera''s power supply ¨C maintenance issues happened all the time in old buildings. Lock the outer doors. Check the schedule again ¨CNo one was scheduled to be down here all day. Everything by the book, if the book was about how to commit felonies in a morgue.


    Standing between the gurneys, I closed my eyes and reached for that familiar spark inside me. The power that marked me as "unnatural" according to Captain Briggs pulsed beneath my skin, reaching out to the empty shells around me. Each body resonated differently ¨C like tuning forks set to various frequencies of death.


    The energy built slowly, a cool tingling in my fingertips that spread up my arms. In my mind''s eye, numbers flickered: Power Level 8, three charges available, revival duration 2.5 minutes. The detailed precision of my ability would have been funny if it wasn''t so terrifying.


    I pulled the metal clipboard from the end of the gurney and skimmed the details. James Morrison, twenty-five, artist. Found in the triangle formation, arms raised skyward like some kind of victory pose. Only he hadn''t won anything ¨C just earned himself a spot in my late-night interrogation lineup.


    According to the initial report, he''d recently sold his first major piece to the downtown gallery. The same gallery where T&T had caught their case earlier tonight. Not the kind of connection that would make my job easier.


    I set the clipboard aside and pulled the sheet back just enough to expose his chest. No wedding ring tan line, no significant scars, just the artistic array of cuts Dr. Harper had noted. The wounds formed a pattern I couldn''t quite decipher ¨C like a signature written in skin.


    Power stats display: Revival charge ready. Power Level 8. Duration: 2.5 minutes.


    I pressed my palm against Morrison''s cold chest, channeling the spark within me. The interface in my mind flickered: Initiating Revival Protocol. Target locked. Duration: 2.5 minutes.


    A jolt of energy coursed through my arm, and Morrison''s body arched upward. His eyes snapped open, and ¨C


    "AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!"


    "Shhhh!" I clapped my hand over his mouth, which only made him scream louder. My heart thundered as I glanced at the door. "Mr. Morrison, please, I''m trying to ¨C"


    "AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!"


    "I''m Detective Kay, I''m here to ¨C"


    "AAAAAAAAHHHHHH!"


    Great. I got a screamer. Some souls come back like they''re waking up from a nap. Others... well.


    "Listen!" I whisper-shouted, trying to hold him down while he thrashed. "I have exactly ¨C" I checked my mental timer"¨C 30 seconds to ask you about your murder, and you''re spending it doing your best fire alarm impression!"


    He paused for a breath. Progress.


    "That''s better. Now, did you see who ¨C"


    "AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!"


    I slumped against the gurney as the timer hit zero and Morrison''s body went slack. The morgue''s silence felt deafening after his performance. Two and a half minutes of pure, uninterrupted screaming. At least I''d remembered to disable the security system this time. Last month''s "mysterious sounds from the morgue" investigation had been awkward enough.


    Revival charge 1 of 3 depleted. Power Level 8 stable.


    I straightened his sheet, muttering, "Thanks for nothing, James. Really stellar witness testimony there."


    One down, two to go. Hopefully the next one would form actual words instead of auditioning for a heavy metal band.


    I moved to the second gurney, double-checking the chart. David Smith, age twenty. His body had been the one crouched like a sprinter, ready for a race he''d never finish. When Dr. Harper had touched him earlier, his head had rolled across the floor like a bowling ball, coming to rest against Marcus''s foot. Now it sat perfectly realigned on his neck, a macabre jigsaw puzzle I''d have to disturb.


    The sheet rustled as I pulled it back. His skin held that grey-marble sheen all the victims shared, making the ligature marks around his neck stand out like a dark necklace. My fingers hovered over his chest. Bringing back someone who''d been decapitated was always... unpredictable.


    Power stats display: Revival charge ready. Power Level 8. Duration: 2.5 minutes.


    The revival felt different this time ¨C less like static shock, more like dipping my hand in ice water. Smith''s eyes opened slowly, almost lazily, as if waking from a nap. His head stayed firmly in place, which was a relief.


    "Oh," he said, blinking at the ceiling. "This is different."


    I kept my voice low, conscious of how sound carried in the morgue. "Mr. Smith, I''m Detective Kay. You have about two minutes to help me understand what happened tonight."


    He turned his head ¨C carefully, as if somehow aware of its tenuous attachment ¨C and studied me with surprising clarity. "The party? We were waiting for the Chi Omega girls. Pre-gaming, you know?" He spoke like he was describing last weekend''s football game, not his own murder. "Then these weird lights started flashing outside. Bobby ¨C he''s kind of an idiot ¨C said it had to be one of those powered freaks messing around."


    I kept my expression neutral. "Did you see anyone?"


    "Nah, just the lights. Like a camera flash, but..." His brow furrowed. "Wrong somehow. Too bright. Too¡­" He turned his head slightly and he began to roll. I tried to stop him but before I could react, he rolled off the gurney and hit the floor with a splat.


    ¡°Ouch¡± he said with one eye looking up at me. Keeping one hand on his chest, I reached down and grabbed him by his hair and brought him eyelevel with me. Before I could say anything, his eyes widened suddenly, fixing on my hand still pressed against his chest and back to my face. "Wait. You''re doing this, aren''t you? You''re one of them!"


    "Focus, Mr. Smith. What happened after the lights?"


    His body jerked but death had left him weak. "Holy shit, they let one of you on the force? That''s ¨C that''s not right. You people are..¡±


    I let go of his chest, instantly sending him back to wherever he was. Smith''s eyes lolled to the side at an impossible angle. I carefully realigned his head with the body before pulling the sheet back up, trying not to think about how this particular interview had nearly gotten ahead of itself.


    Revival charge 2 of 3 depleted. Power Level 8 stable.


    I pulled the sheet back over him, trying to ignore how his last words echoed in my head. Another dead end ¨C literally. At least this one had given me something besides a headache.


    One more to go. Third time''s the charm, right?


    I moved to the last gurney, feeling the fatigue of two revivals weighing on me. The clipboard identified him as Ethan Price, graphic designer. He''d been the one with his head tilted back, arms spread wide.


    Power stats display: Final revival charge ready. Power Level 8. Duration: 2.5 minutes.


    My hand trembled slightly as I pressed it against his chest. Something felt different this time ¨C the energy didn''t flow so much as surge, like static building before a lightning strike.


    Initiating Revival Protocol. Congratulations, you have leveled up. Welcome to Level 9. Target locked.


    Price''s eyes opened, and to my surprise, he immediately propped himself up on his elbows, looking around with casual interest. "Nice place you''ve got here. Very... sterile. Though I''d suggest some throw pillows, maybe a houseplant."


    "I¨C" I blinked, thrown by his composure. "Mr. Price, I''m Detective Kay. I need to ask you about¨C"


    "My murder?" He rolled his shoulders like he was working out a kink. "Yeah, that was... unexpected.¡± He continued to look around the room. ¡°I dont¡­ really remember everything¡­ There was this shadow that moved wrong ¨C like it was crawling up the wallt. I remember thinking that wasn''t physically possible, and then..." He gestured at the wound at the center of his chest. "Well, you saw how that ended."


    "Did you see who¨C" I started, but Price cut me off.


    "Sorry, quick question ¨C aren''t I supposed to be, you know, dead? Because I''m feeling surprisingly not-dead right now. And your hand is kind of glowing."


    I yanked my hand back. The timer in my head was still at zero, I didn''t even think it started counting down, but Price was still talking. Still moving. Still... alive?


    "Oh god." I stumbled backward. "This isn''t ¨C you''re supposed to go back."


    "Back?" He sat up fully, touching his neck with a mixture of fascination and horror. "Back to being dead? Because I''ve got to say, I''m not really feeling that right now. Although..." He swung his legs over the side of the gurney, the sheet pooling around his waist. "Does this mean I''m alive, or..."


    System alert: New ability unlocked: Extended Revival. Warning: Duration unknown.


    "I don''t know," I whispered, staring at my still-glowing hand. "This has never happened before."


    Price grinned, though it looked a bit shaky. "Well, I guess that whole ''dead men tell no tales'' thing is out the window, huh?"


    I closed my eyes, calculating how many regulations I''d just broken by accidentally resurrecting someone. "I am so fired."


    A distant door slammed, followed by footsteps echoing through the morgue''s corridors. I froze, recognizing the rhythm of Detective Chen''s stride. What on earth is he doing down here?


    "We need to move. Now." I grabbed a set of scrubs from a supply cabinet and tossed them at Ethan. "Put these on."


    "You know," he said, fumbling with the pants, "when I imagined my dramatic return from death, I pictured something more dignified than mint green polyester."


    The footsteps grew closer. I yanked the privacy curtain around his gurney, my mind racing through evacuation routes. "Less fashion critique, more dressing."


    "Should I be concerned that I can still do basic things like, you know, breathe?" Ethan''s head popped around the curtain. "Also, these shoes are definitely not my size."


    "Right now, you should be concerned about not getting caught." I peeked out the door. The hallway stretched empty, but not for long. "We''ve got maybe two minutes before¨C"


    The overhead lights flickered. In the security monitor, a dark shape slid across the wall ¨C moving against the light like spilled ink flowing upward. I blinked, and it vanished.


    "Oh hey," Ethan said, stepping out in wrinkled scrubs. "That''s what I saw before the whole..." He looked down at hsi chest. "You know."


    The security door at the end of the hall beeped. I grabbed Ethan''s arm and pulled him toward the service elevator. "Time''s up. Walk like you belong here and don''t make eye contact with anyone."


    "Sure, just act natural. Because there''s nothing suspicious about a dead guy in scrubs being escorted out by a detective." He stumbled slightly. "Also, is it normal that my feet feel kind of tingly?"


    I jabbed the elevator button repeatedly. "I don''t exactly have a manual for this situation."


    As the doors slid open, I caught movement in the corner of my eye ¨C another shadow, writhing against the wall like a living thing. But when I turned to look, there was nothing there except the steady red blink of the security camera.


    "So," Ethan said as we stepped into the elevator, "does this make me a zombie? Because I have questions about my dietary requirements going forward."


    The elevator doors closed just as Dr. Chen''s keys jingled around the corner. I leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted. "First rule of being undead ¨C no zombie jokes."


    "That''s fair." He paused. "What about ghost jokes?"


    I closed my eyes, mentally updating my career options. Prison guard. Mall security. Anything that didn''t involve resurrecting witnesses. "Let''s focus on getting out of here without being seen. Then we can discuss your new life as a technically-deceased person."


    "Looking forward to it." Ethan grinned, but I noticed his hands shaking slightly. "By the way, your hand is still glowing."


    I looked down. The power surge had left a faint blue shimmer beneath my skin, pulsing like a heartbeat ¨C a heart that shouldn''t be beating at all.


    What the hell had I done?