A week later, the air in the police station conference room was thick with tension. The clock on the wall ticked to half-past ten, its hands crawling under the weight of the grim atmosphere. Sunlight slanted through blinds, failing to cut through the gloom.
This was the fifth case analysis meeting, but this one felt different. Chief Sam himself was running it. His face was like thunder, his brow furrowed, his gaze sweeping the officers flanking the long table. You could feel the pressure radiating off him; nobody dared break the silence.
“Nine days,” Chief Sam finally said, his voice low and heavy. “Nine damn days, and we’re still nowhere.” His fist slammed on the table with a muffled thud. “The whole damn city’s watching this horrific murder. If we don’t show some real progress by tomorrow’s press conference, it’s going to be a black mark on this entire department!”
The room went quiet enough to hear a pin drop, save for a few nervous swallows. Sam took a breath, trying to get his anger in check. “Alright, let’s hear the updates.”
Laoyeer, head of the Tech Division, looked like he hadn’t slept in days as he stood, a stack of papers clutched in his hand. “Chief, everyone,” he began, looking defeated, “that alley cam behind the bar? We’re still hitting a wall. From 1:30 to 2:00 AM, it’s just a blank screen. We’ve tried everything, and it’s like those thirty minutes just vanished.”
“Damn it!” Sam scowled. “There’s absolutely no way to recover it?”
“None, Chief. It’s like the time just… ceased to exist,” Laoyeer shook his head. “We even thought maybe someone got into the system, did a deep dive, but the equipment’s clean. No sign of a breach.”
A low murmur rippled through the room as officers exchanged glances. Laoyeer continued, “Nightdew Gardens wasn’t a complete loss, though. We managed to pull some footage.”
Heads perked up, a flicker of hope in their eyes.
“But…” he sighed, the hope deflating instantly. “The quality’s terrible. So blurry, we can’t make out anything useful.”
Disappointment settled back over the room like a shroud.
“What about Winchester Street?” Superintendent Alexander asked.
“Winchester Street’s fine,” Laoyeer replied. “Shows Clark getting home at 11:52 PM. The officer on monitoring duty said he was acting normal, nothing to raise any flags.”
Sam nodded, gesturing for him to continue.
“Road cams from the bar to the Moonlight Inn,” Laoyeer flipped through his files, “confirm Rabinsay Jin Steve, the antique dealer, left the bar at 12:40 AM and got to the inn at 12:52 AM.”
Mark, an officer in the corner, chimed in. “We’ve had eyes on the antique dealer the last few days. He’s been hitting up antique markets, auctions, libraries, museums – nothing out of the ordinary.”
Sam paused, considering. “Keep him under observation, but keep it low-key.”
Laoyeer continued, “Ritchie Apartments is still giving us headaches. We contacted their security company – even their techs are baffled. The street cam and Building 3 were going in and out, no rhyme or reason. But the last few days? Working perfectly, no hiccups at all.”
“Meaning what?” an officer asked, confused.
“We tore the equipment apart, checked the wiring – everything’s textbook,” Laoyeer explained. “Weirder still, it was just the street cam and Building 3 acting up. Building 5’s been fine the whole time. But we’ve gone through Building 5’s footage with a fine-tooth comb, and there’s nothing. The couple there? Just living their lives, nothing suspicious at all.”
Sam’s brow furrowed deeper. “This case is just getting messier.”
Just then, a young officer stood. “Chief, we’ve processed Shimura Yu for the harassment. No distribution of self-made… you know… and a first-time offense. He got two months and 3,000 fine .”
Sam nodded, motioning him to sit. Howard from Forensics stood, his face grim. “Shimura Yu’s weapon came back clean. No foreign DNA. Looks like it wasn’t used in any other crimes.”
“Detective Smith, any progress on your end?” Sam turned to the detective on his right.
Smith stood, looking resolute. “We’ve done a deep dive on evidence collection, and the three young men check out. Alanx and Marcus were back at Duville College by midnight, doorman confirmed it. Chris, the mechanic, was back at his place by 12:05 AM, confirmed by his apartment’s security and his girlfriend.”
“So, airtight alibis?” Sam asked.
“Pretty much. We can rule them out,” Smith replied.
Jones, the Family Liaison Officer, stood, his voice raspy. “The families are a mess, emotionally. Brown and I are doing our best to keep them afloat, but they’re not giving us anything useful. They just want to know when we’re going to catch the guy.”
Sam sighed. “I understand their pain. We need to pick up the pace.”
Pike, head of Investigations, took over. “We’ve expanded the search out to Atlantic Avenue, still not finding much. We’ve done a grid search, nothing jumps out.”
“Social services haven’t turned up anything either. Nightdew Gardens
’s a ghost town at night. No witness reports,” William, Pike’s assistant, added.
Just then, Carl nodded subtly to the person beside him.
Kim stood again, holding a report. “We traced that extra 5,000 in Daisy’s account before she died. It was payments from Shimura. We also tracked down and questioned the guys who had those… encounters with Daisy. They all knew she was a student at Duville College, and they all have alibis for the night she died.”
Smith added, “Looks like we can rule out a crime of passion. Tech and I pulled all of Daisy’s socials – nothing linking her death to anyone on her lists. Same goes for Dasco.”
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Silence descended again. Sam’s fingers tapped lightly on the table, a sign of his growing frustration.
An older officer stood. “Chief, we’ve been keeping tabs on Thomas. That construction worker gives off a bad vibe. Site security, Old Bob, was full of stories about Thomas’s ‘misdeeds.’ Turns out most of it was hot air.”
“Anything concrete?” Sam asked.
“Yeah,” the officer nodded. “Turns out Thomas is involved with Devin, the bartender. They’re an item. Also, there’s been a sudden spike in stray cats in the area. Keeping the neighbors up at night.”
“Stray cats?” Carl frowned. Something about that clicked – the antique dealer’s story about the cat in the alley. And those cold eyes of Thomas…
“Keep an eye on Thomas and Devin,” Sam instructed. “And those cats – might be something there.”
Kim was back on his feet. “I also hit up the homeless folks who hang around Nightdew Gardens and the bar, see if they saw anything. Nada.”
Forensic Howard stood again, a thick report in hand, distributing copies. “Further autopsy results. We found night-blooming jasmine seeds in the victims’ skin tissue, both Daisy and Dasco.”
“Night-blooming jasmine?” someone murmured.
“Yeah,” Howard confirmed. “More importantly, we thought we had traces of amphetamines, but it looks like it might be another, unknown aphrodisiac. Mix that with night-blooming jasmine and alcohol, and you get a hell of a reaction – heightened desire, dulled senses.”
“Meaning?” Sam pressed.
“It could explain why they were oblivious to what was coming,” Howard explained. “Their senses were compromised, they wouldn’t have noticed anything out of the ordinary.”
He paused, his face grave. “Guys, I’m starting to think we’re looking at the wrong timeframe, the wrong location. Maybe they weren’t killed between 2 and 3 AM, maybe Nightdew Gardens wasn’t the primary scene.”
His words hit the room like a jolt. Carl felt something click into place. A phrase the antique dealer had used echoed in his mind: “We are all trapped in a circle; no one can escape, whether in life or death.”
“Escaping the circle… maybe it means going back to the beginning to find the answer…” he murmured, a sense of determination hardening his gaze.
Sam noticed Carl’s reaction. “Carl, what are you thinking?”
Carl looked up. “Chief, I think we need to rewind. Re-examine the whole timeline, the locations. Maybe we’ve overlooked something crucial.”
Sam nodded. “Alright. Moving forward, that’s our starting point. Let’s piece this thing back together.”
As the meeting broke up, officers began to file out, but Carl remained seated, lost in thought. He sensed deeper currents beneath the surface of the case, answers hidden in plain sight, where they hadn’t been looking.
The sunlight outside was still bright, but he knew they had to cut through layers of fog to find the real light.
Clark stood before his mirror, meticulously adjusting his tie. His fingers, long and precise, moved with an almost obsessive care. His charcoal suit was impeccably tailored, every crease in his shirt sharp and perfect.
“Darling,” he turned to Elizabeth on the bed, “how do I look today?”
Sunlight streamed through the lace curtains, warming Elizabeth’s golden hair, a soft contrast to her pale skin. She smiled at her husband. “Perfect, as always, just like the day we met.”
A faint smile touched Clark’s lips. He turned back to the mirror and pulled an antique pocket watch from his inner jacket pocket. The gold chain draped elegantly over his hand, catching the light.
He gently swung his wrist, the watch tracing a smooth arc, the chain sketching fleeting patterns in the air. Intricate engravings on the watch face shimmered and darkened, as if holding some secret.
Clark watched the swinging watch, murmuring, “Time… a perfect circle. We’re all just stuck inside, a pendulum that never stops swinging.”
He tucked the watch away and glanced at the time. “Darling, I need to get to work. I’ll be home early tonight.” His voice was soft, but something flickered in his eyes.
“Have a good day, Henry,” Elizabeth smiled. “Take an umbrella. They’re saying rain.”
Clark quietly closed the door behind him, the morning chill making him tighten his jacket. The sycamore trees lining the street were ancient, their thick trunks and intertwined branches casting the sidewalk in dappled shade. Leaves danced around his feet in the breeze, a silent autumn waltz.
The “Time” café sat on the second floor of a grey stone building, moss creeping up its ornate pillars. Time had given the place a unique charm. The shop''s name, "Time," was etched in copper, worn smooth and glowing faintly green. Inside, a row of antique mantel clocks lined a shelf, their carved wooden cases intricate, all their hands frozen at nine o’clock.
An elderly gentleman stood by the window, his coffee steaming. The collar of his trench coat was turned up, his left hand gripping a cane. From his vantage point, he had a clear view of the street. Just then, Clark passed through the shifting shadows of the trees, heading towards the corner. His figure quickly disappeared into the morning bustle, swallowed by the city.
The old man took a sip of his coffee, a knowing look in his eyes.
A moment later, Carl pushed open the café door. The old wooden stairs creaked, adding to the quiet seclusion.
“Sorry I’m late, Mr. Steve,” Carl said, approaching the old man. “Really sorry.”
The elderly gentleman ignored the apology, simply pointing out the window. “Officer, tell me what you see.”
Carl followed his gesture. “An old brick building, moss on the ground, tall sycamores, and… isn’t that Mr. Clark’s house?” He paused. Henry Clark’s home sat in that unassuming spot.
“Hidden in plain sight,” the old man murmured, his voice steady and cryptic.
Carl was about to ask what he meant, but the elderly gentleman held up a hand. “If you wouldn’t mind, let’s have a cup of Black Mountain coffee.” His tone was distinctly aristocratic as he settled gracefully into a chair by the window.
The waiter nodded and went to prepare the coffee. The old man’s gaze returned to the window. Carl knew better than to push too hard with someone like him.
He sat down too, waiting quietly for his coffee, watching the old man intently studying the dark liquid in his cup.
“Enjoying your time in the city, Mr. Steve?” Carl finally asked.
“Immensely,” a spark flickered in the old man’s eyes. “The Oriental Gallery at the Royal Museum – the engravings on those bronzes are captivating. Every scratch tells an ancient story. At the old book market, I found a first edition of ‘The Chronology of the Loong Era,’ filled with obscure histories from Emperor Loong’s time. And the stained glass at St. Joseph’s Cathedral is mesmerizing – those vibrant patterns, tales of ancient darkness and light.”
The waiter brought the coffee, its rich aroma filling the air. Carl took a sip, appreciating the unique flavor.
“Exceptional,” he said sincerely.
“Indeed,” Stevens offered a faint smile. “Black Mountain beans are quite prized among collectors like myself.”
He didn’t elaborate, as if more stories were hidden within those beans.
Carl noticed the old man’s gaze shifting between his cup and the street corner, lost in thought.
“You’re a man of mystery, Mr. Stevens,” Carl observed.
The old man’s smile deepened. “Officer Carl, I’m afraid I can’t be of much help with your case, but I do have a few stories.”
“I’m all ears.” Carl took another sip of coffee.
Stevens stirred a sugar cube into his coffee, watching it dissolve, and began.
“In Leads, there’s a family – the Michels. Four hundred years of history, mostly whispered about in shadows.”
He paused, gazing at the rising steam. Morning light cut through the wisps, forming fleeting, ghostly shapes.
“Their story is…unusual. In the dark corners of pubs, in hushed conversations on noble estates, their name brings both fear and reverence.”
His voice had the cadence of a storyteller.
“Their mansion supposedly sits on the highest hill in Leads, but few have truly seen it clearly. Some see crumbling ruins, others a magnificent manor. The creatures that patrol its grounds are… not entirely wolves, and the flowers in their gardens shouldn’t exist in this world.”
He sipped his coffee. “More intriguing still are the rumors of their influence. Every major decision in the empire’s history, they say, bears their invisible mark. Assassinations, coronations, wars, peace – all touched by their unseen hand.”
A hint of a smile, almost imperceptible, played on his lips, a smile Carl didn’t understand. “Detective, which version do you believe?”
Carl shook his head. “Just ghost stories, legends. Every old town has them. Either the wealthy families like the mystique, or the common folk invent glorious pasts. I’ve seen it all.”
The old man’s lips quirked up, his eyes holding an ancient, knowing light. “An interesting perspective.” He set down his cup. “But I’ve always wondered why some stories last for centuries while others fade. What makes a story stick, Detective, while another disappears?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. “The Michels have been in Leads for four centuries, yet no one can describe them – their appearance, their wealth, even their numbers. Strange, isn’t it? In this age of information, they remain such an enigma.”
Carl noticed the old man’s reflection in the window seemed momentarily distorted, but righted itself in the next instant. Just a trick of the light, he figured.
The old man’s smile widened, as if savoring a private joke. “Perhaps you’re right, Detective. Perhaps they’re just stories after all.”
“Another story,” the old man said abruptly, his gaze shifting to a distant clock tower. “Time has a peculiar habit – turning reality into legend, and legend back into reality.”
A weariness settled in his voice.
“Long ago, there was a powerful being. Neither god nor mortal, no one could truly define its essence. It drifted through time and space, bestowing knowledge and power, spreading both truth and lies.”
The old man’s fingers traced the handle of his cane.
“In a conflict beyond our comprehension, this being was shattered into twelve pieces by an even greater force. Each piece became an object of power, imbued with incredible abilities.”
The sunlight outside flickered, as if punctuating his words.
“These objects are scattered across the world. Some say hidden in ancient ruins, others disguised as ordinary trinkets. They lie dormant, waiting for the right person to find them.”
His voice deepened. “Legend has it that if someone gathers all twelve, they can summon that being. And in return, it will grant the summoner’s wish. However…” He paused, a significant look in his eye, “everyone who’s tried has paid a terrible price. Because some forces, once unleashed, cannot be controlled.”
Carl considered this. “Sounds like a cautionary tale against greed.”
The old man offered a knowing smile. “Perhaps. But have you considered, Detective, that excessive curiosity might be a form of greed as well?”
A cool breeze stirred, and Carl tightened his coat.
“The story’s over,” the old man said, a faint smile returning.
Silence hung between them. Carl considered their conversation, the feeling that the old man was hinting at something, like chasing a ghost.
“If such a being existed,” Carl said, half-jokingly, “maybe it could help me solve this case. I’d be willing to pay any price.”
The old man stood, his cane tapping lightly on the floor. “I’ll get the coffee. I’m planning to return to Leads soon, but…” He paused. “I have a feeling we’ll meet again before long.”
Carl watched him walk away, chuckling softly to himself. “Can’t exactly arrest him for questioning. He’s a law-abiding citizen, after all.”
Sunlight streamed through the window, casting a mosaic of light and shadow on the floor. Carl took one last look at the sycamore trees before turning to leave the café.