Page 10 of Forbidden

The room seemed to contract around them, the walls pressing in with the gravity of their discovery. This wasn't just a random scrawling meant to terrify; it was a sign, a message from the killer. The symbol linked these deaths to the shadows, to a world most people dared not acknowledge.

"Where?" Morgan's voice was steady, her demand cutting through any lingering hesitation.

"Here," Alice replied, her fingers dancing across the keyboard with renewed vigor. She pulled up document after document, each one shedding light on the darkened corners of the internet where such imagery thrived. As the pages loaded, Morgan's mind raced, connecting dots, drawing lines from this virtual evidence back to the flesh-and-blood reality of the murders.

Satanism—Morgan had sensed its stain from the beginning, but what unfurled before her now was more specific, more insidious than she had imagined. The documents detailed a niche sect, a shadowy branch flourishing in the cracks of society. Its iconography mirrored the symbol they sought, a twisted sigil representing beliefs that delved into the deepest pits of human depravity.

"Dammit," Morgan muttered under her breath, the pieces clicking together with a resounding clarity. The crimes weren't just brutal acts of violence; they were rituals, meticulously planned and executed with a purpose that chilled her to the bone. The realization tightened her resolve, the hunger for justice burning in her veins like a forge. Whoever was behind this had left a trail, and she would follow it straight to hell if that's where it led.

"Keep going, Alice," Morgan said, her words slicing through the tension that hung between them. "We're close."

Alice nodded, her fingers moving once again, the search narrowing, the hunt intensifying. They were no longer chasing shadows—they were closing in on a tangible threat, and Morgan knew there was no turning back.

Morgan leaned in closer, her gaze fixed on the screen that Alice meticulously navigated. The symbols and texts on the digital documents seemed to dance before her eyes, a morbid ballet of clues that beckoned with sinister promise. As Alice's voice cut through the silence of the lab, Morgan's attention tightened.

"This branch is obscure," Alice relayed, her tone threaded with the gravity of their discovery. "It's not mainstream Satanism—if there is such a thing. Their numbers are small, but they're fervent. This symbol," she pointed at the sigil on the screen, "it's like their signature, used in rituals and carved into places where they've marked their territory."

"Territory..." Morgan echoed, the word falling heavily in the air. She knew the significance of such dedication; it meant their perpetrator wasn't an imitator. They were hunting someone who believed in the darkness they summoned—a true zealot.

"Are there any connections to Dallas?" Morgan asked, her mind already racing ahead. It was one thing to identify the cult, but another to link them to the murders of Elizabeth Harmon and Rachel Marquez. Two women whose final moments were shrouded in orchestrated terror, lured to their deaths by someone versed in the art of deception and steeped in the perverse.

Alice nodded and returned her focus to the laptop. Her fingers were a blur, keystrokes echoing in the sterile room as she filtered their search to a narrower field. Morgan observed, her own hands clenching involuntarily as she braced for the revelation that might bridge the gap between the cryptic symbol and the blood-soaked ground of the Dallas construction sites.

"Come on, come on," Morgan whispered to herself, a silent mantra urging them forward. The hum of machinery and the rhythmic tapping of keys became a soundtrack to her anticipation. Each passing second stretched on, taut with the weight of waiting, until the screen flickered with a fresh batch of localized results.

"Here." Alice's voice broke the tension. "Symbols documented in the Dallas area. There's not much—this group keeps under the radar. But look at this."

Morgan hunched over Alice's shoulder, her breath caught in a tight knot as the screen loaded another piece of the puzzle. The sterile glow of the lab seemed to dim, giving way to the piercing glare from the laptop. The digital search had dredged up a name and a place, something tangible amidst the mist of data—Atticus Tattoo.

The webpage before them was draped in shadows, its design an homage to the sinister. Amongst the scrolling gallery of ink and skin, one image seared itself into Morgan's memory—the symbol that had haunted their case, now offered up as artistry for anyone's flesh. It was a grotesque mimicry of the marks they'd found painted at the crime scenes. The specter of the occult loomed large, singeing the edges of the room's cold logic with its infernal heat.

"Zoom in on that," Morgan instructed.

Alice complied, clicking into the image until it consumed their field of vision. The portfolio entry expanded, revealing not only the design but also the mind behind it. Drew Swanson's face filled the screen, his eyes a piercing challenge, his expression etched with an intensity that matched the complexity of the symbols adorning his skin.

"Owner and lead artist," Alice read aloud, scrolling through the biography that cataloged Drew's journey into the depths of dark artistry. His accolades were many, his skill unquestionable, but it was the collection of Satanic tattoos that cloaked him which drew Morgan's focus. They were more than mere decoration; they were a statement, a testament to a belief system that thrived in the darkness.

"Look at these," Morgan said, pointing at the myriad of occult symbols that laced Drew's arms. "It's like a roadmap of his psyche."

"Or a catalogue of his clientele's tastes," Derik murmured from beside her, his voice a steady counterpoint to the mounting tension.

Each tattoo told a story, and Morgan wondered which narrative had spilled over into the real world with such lethal consequences. Drew Swanson was no longer just a name or a face; he was a person of interest, and the distance between the agents and their quarry had just narrowed to the length of a needle's tip.

Morgan's eyes met Derik's across the glowing screens, a silent conversation passing between them. The symbol that had marked the deaths, once an enigma, now held the promise of answers. Etched in ink on Drew Swanson's virtual gallery, it called to them like a beacon. This was no random scribble; it was a deliberate marker, a signature left behind with arrogant confidence.

"Looks like we've got our link," Morgan stated, her voice low but laced with a leaden certainty. Derik nodded, his gaze sharpening with the realization. The tattoo design and the crime scene symbol shared more than passing resemblance—they were practically twins. In the shadowy world of cults and killers, such things were never mere coincidence. They both knew that Drew Swanson had just become the focal point of their investigation.

The quiet hum of computers and the sterile scent of the lab faded into the background as Morgan's analytical mind took over. There was a pattern here, something twisted that tied the artistry of skin and ink to the brutality of the murders. The question was whether Swanson was the spider at the center of this web or just another fly caught in its silken threads.

"Thanks, Alice," Morgan said, turning to acknowledge the young tech analyst whose fierce typing had brought them to this precipice. "Your work could be what cracks this case wide open."

Alice looked up from her keyboard, a trace of pride flickering across her features before she ducked her head back to her screen, lost again in a sea of data. Morgan appreciated the girl's dedication—she reminded her a bit of herself when she first started, before the years and betrayals had honed her edges to a fine point.

It was time to confront Drew Swanson.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Morgan felt the warmth of the afternoon sun on her skin as she and Derik approached Atticus Tattoo. The friendly Texas weather stood in stark contrast to what awaited them inside. Pushing open the door, the agents were met with a cool shadow that enveloped the space like a shroud. The shop was silent, devoid of the usual electric buzz of tattoo needles and the murmur of artists consulting with clients. Instead, a strange calm hung heavily in the air.

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