"You're late," he whispered, his hand hovering over the final lever.

With a roar of machinery, the lighthouse lantern flared to a blinding white, and Autumn realized the deadline wasn't for his next victim. It was for the island itself. The countdown had hit zero, and the shadows were finally coming home.

The killer wasn't just playing a game; he was working on a schedule. Every forty-eight hours, a new body appeared, meticulously posed, with a small, rusted clock pinned to their chest—always set to midnight.

Autumn’s phone buzzed, the screen illuminating the dark room. It was a message from an unknown sender: Tick-tock, Autumn. The deadline is closer than you think.