《chaos walker》


 Chapter1:The Devils Martini

    Twilight settled over the corner tavern like a worn blanket. The door''s ancient hinges groaned as an unexpected patron stepped through. His black overcoat, draped over an impeccably tailored suit, carried an air of old money. The brim of his bowler hat cast a shadow across gold-rimmed spectacles, while his meticulously trimmed silver beard spoke of fastidious habits.


    Each tap of his ebony cane against the weathered floorboards echoed through the room, a steady rhythm that seemed to momentarily quiet the usual tavern din. The air hung heavy with tobacco smoke and aged whiskey, a familiar comfort to the regulars who barely glanced up from their drinks.


    "Martini," he said, his ice-blue eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the bar. The bartender''s hands faltered for just a heartbeat before reaching for the vermouth. On the wall-mounted TV, a baseball game played out in muted tones, the commentator''s voice weaving through scattered laughter and murmured conversations.


    Through the prism of his martini glass, he studied the evening''s cast of characters. The regulars had settled into their usual spots like well-worn furniture. At the bar, a middle-aged man in a wrinkled plaid shirt tapped his glass absently to the jazz floating from hidden speakers. The construction worker beside him hadn''t bothered changing after his shift - concrete dust still clung to his coveralls as he traded weather complaints with the bartender.


    In a dimly lit booth, a young couple had created their own private universe, their whispered intimacies punctuated by soft laughter. Near the entrance, three twenty-somethings argued about batting averages with the passionate conviction of sports devotees.


    Then his gaze was drawn to the man appearing to be a businessman.


    Tucked away in the least conspicuous corner, the man in the rumpled suit nursed his whiskey with trembling hands. His tie hung loose and askew, while beads of sweat dotted his forehead despite the cool evening air. His complexion shifted between ghostly pale and fever-flush as his darting eyes swept across the room. Each time his gaze crossed another patron, his Adam''s apple bobbed nervously.


    The briefcase at his feet seemed to demand his attention every few minutes, like a guilty secret refusing to stay buried.


    "Kill them..."


    His knuckles whitened around the glass. The voice - honeyed and seductive yet chilling - sent fresh rivulets of sweat down his spine.


    The olive in his martini performed a lazy waltz, its movement hypnotic in the amber light. Across the room, the businessman''s fingers wrestled with his tie, each movement a careful study in forced casualty. His drinking had taken on a mechanical rhythm - lift, sip, pause, repeat - broken only by those moments when his eyes would lock onto the empty chair across his table, seeing something that wasn''t there.


    The tavern''s usual warmth began to ebb, replaced by something colder, darker. The baseball game reached its final innings, drawing cheers from the three young men who soon after settled their tab and disappeared into the night, arms slung around shoulders in easy camaraderie.


    The man in the plaid shirt''s phone conversation drifted across the bar: "No, can''t make it tomorrow... yeah, something came up." He dropped a few crumpled bills on the counter and headed for the door. As he passed the corner booth, a knowing smirk played across his lips, followed by a shake of his head.


    In that booth, the young couple had abandoned all pretense of propriety. The girl straddled her boyfriend''s lap, her skirt riding dangerously high. Their passionate sighs mingled with the wet sounds of desperate kisses. His hands traced the geography of her body through thin fabric, lingering at each peak and valley. The yellow wall lamp cast their tangled shadows against the wall - a living, breathing Rorschach test of desire.


    The businessman remained rooted in his corner, emptying his fourth whiskey with trembling determination. His briefcase had migrated to his lap, and as he rummaged through it, metal clinked against metal - a sound that seemed to echo far longer than it should have. His eyes darted between the remaining patrons, his lips moving in silent count.


    The temperature dropped another degree.


    The jazz died mid-note.


    In the sudden vacuum of sound that followed, even breathing seemed an intrusion. The silence spread like spilled ink, seeping into every corner of the tavern. A preternatural chill slithered through the room, leaving frost flowers blooming across the windows in its wake.


    The bartender''s cloth paused mid-swipe across a glass, his brow furrowing at something he couldn''t quite name. In their shadowed booth, the couple froze mid-embrace, the girl''s fingers still caught in the act of undoing her lover''s buttons. For a heartbeat, clarity pierced through their alcohol-hazed eyes - like prey animals suddenly sensing a predator''s presence. But the moment passed as quickly as it came; the bartender resumed his methodical polishing, and the couple sank back into their passionate oblivion.


    The man with the gold-rimmed spectacles kept his ice-blue gaze fixed on that corner. The businessman''s complexion had taken on a fevered sheen, his bloodshot eyes wild as his teeth ground audibly together. With mechanical precision, he rose from his seat, his trembling right hand hovering over the briefcase. His fingers danced across the clasp, a conductor preparing for his darkest symphony.


    Metal rasped against leather within the case. The gentleman took another deliberate sip of his martini, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.


    The businessman''s hand disappeared into the depths of his case, clutching at something inside. His fingers clenched and unclenched in a desperate rhythm, sweat streaming down his face as his breathing grew ragged and harsh. His gaze ricocheted around the room before finally settling on the entangled couple.


    "Kill them," the voice whispered, sweet as honey laced with arsenic. "Kill them," it demanded again, the words dripping with madness.


    His knuckles whitened one final time around whatever lay hidden in the case. Then, with what seemed like superhuman effort, he drew a long, shuddering breath and slowly uncurled his fingers. The briefcase clicked shut with the finality of a coffin lid.


    The silver-haired gentleman raised his glass in a mock toast, swirling the olive in its crystal prison. He sipped his martini with an air of profound disappointment, shaking his head slightly as something dark flickered behind those ice-blue eyes.


    The jazz stuttered back to life, and somewhere in the night, death found its mark.


    Dawn crept across Nightdew Gardens with artless indifference to the horror it illuminated. The autumn air hung sharp and clean, a stark contrast to the metallic tang of blood that lingered beneath. Police sirens had long since fallen silent, replaced by the clinical efficiency of a crime scene in full swing.


    Yellow police tape fluttered in the morning breeze, creating a garish border between the mundane and the macabre. Beyond it, a growing crowd of early morning joggers and curious onlookers gathered like moths to a flame, smartphones raised high to capture death''s aftermath for their social media feeds.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    Camera flashes punctuated the grey morning light as the forensics team worked with methodical precision. Blood had painted dark abstract patterns around the base of the lamp post, now dried to the color of old rust. The medical examiner knelt beside the bodies, her latex-gloved hands moving with practiced efficiency.


    Detective Carl stood beneath the lamp post, his weathered face betraying nothing as he studied the tableau before him. In his mind''s eye, he reconstructed the victims'' final moments: the girl braced against the cold metal, her lover pressed against her from behind, one hand claiming her breast, the other anchored at her hip. Both lost in their approaching climax, their senses dulled by alcohol and desire. Neither noticing the whisper of approaching footsteps, the flash of steel.


    "Preliminary findings indicate exsanguination due to severed carotid arteries," the medical examiner''s clinical tone cut through his thoughts. She straightened up, snapping off her gloves. "Time of death estimated between 12 PM and 2 AM, based on liver temperature and rigor mortis progression. Full toxicology pending, but both victims show significant signs of alcohol consumption." She paused, frowning slightly at her notes. "The wounds are... unusual."


    The girl''s designer handbag lay abandoned on a nearby bench, its contents scattered like breadcrumbs: a half-used tube of MAC lipstick, a leather wallet, a ring of keys with a fluffy rabbit''s foot charm. The wallet yielded a Duville College student ID - Daisy Miranda, 20, her photograph showing a laughing girl who thought she had all the time in the world.


    The boy''s clothes lay crumpled beside the lamp post, the expensive fabric now stiff with dried blood. His wallet, found in the back pocket of his designer jeans, contained another Duville College ID - Dasco Reed, 21, his confident smile frozen in time. The crime scene unit moved around them like choreographed dancers, numbering each item, photographing, collecting, cataloging the detritus of truncated lives.


    "Interesting." The word fell from Carl''s lips like a pebble into still water.


    "Sir?" Kim glanced up from his notebook, pen poised. The young detective still carried himself with the eager awkwardness of a rookie, his three months under Carl''s mentorship having done little to weather away his academy polish.


    "The wounds," Carl murmured, crouching beside the bodies. "Look at the precision - twin cuts, nearly identical in both depth and angle." His weathered face creased in concentration. "Even with the victims... distracted, to inflict such matching wounds simultaneously..."


    "The alcohol content in their blood must have been significant," Kim flipped through his notes, the pages crackling in the morning chill. "There''s only one bar within walking distance - Le Petit Caf¨¦. No signs of struggle at the scene." He gestured at the undisturbed carpet of fallen leaves around the bodies. "Even the ground tells us they never saw it coming."


    Carl''s eyes narrowed as he surveyed the scene. "Our killer knows this area well."


    Carl lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the lines etched deep in his face. The smoke curled up into the grey morning air as he pondered the puzzle before him. How could a single assailant execute such precise kills in perfect synchronization? If there were two killers... but no, that theory felt equally wrong. The identical nature of the wounds suggested something else entirely - as if the same blade had struck from multiple angles at the exact same moment.


    "Kim," he exhaled a stream of smoke, "canvas the neighborhood. Focus on anyone who might have been awake between midnight and two AM. And handle the notifications to the victims'' families with care - these photos are going to be all over social media within the hour."


    "What about you?"


    "I''m heading to Le Petit Caf¨¦." Carl''s eyes remained fixed on the blood patterns around the lamp post. "Something tells me we''ll find more than just their drink orders there."


    The morning mist began to lift, revealing a city slowly awakening to tragedy. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled six times, its bronze notes carrying a weight of finality.


    Morning mist clung to Lansnat''s cobblestone streets like a reluctant lover, pearls of condensation catching the first tentative rays of dawn. Above Le Petit Caf¨¦, Devin''s dreams shattered at the sound of insistent knocking. The bartender''s eyes cracked open, finding his small apartment bathed in the grey half-light of early morning.


    The bedside clock read 6:40 AM. Last night''s inexplicable chill still haunted the edges of his memory as he fumbled for his robe. "Who the hell..." he muttered, shuffling down the narrow stairs to the bar''s entrance. Through the frosted glass panel, he made out the silhouette of a man in civilian clothes.


    "We''re closed until noon," Devin called through the crack in the door, his voice still rough with sleep.


    The man outside offered a tired smile that didn''t quite reach his eyes. A badge appeared in his weathered hands. "Detective Carl Blackwood, Lansnat Major Crimes Unit. You must be Mr. Devin?"


    Something in the detective''s tone made Devin''s stomach tighten. He opened the door wider, morning air rushing in with the scent of approaching rain. "Just finished my shift a few hours ago," he said, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "What''s this about?"


    Carl stepped inside, his experienced eyes already scanning the bar''s interior. "I''ll need to see some ID first - standard procedure." His notebook appeared with practiced efficiency.


    Devin climbed back upstairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. When he returned with his license, Carl studied it with methodical care before handing it back.


    "Mr. Devin," the detective''s voice took on a gravity that made the bartender''s skin prickle, "we need to discuss last night''s events."


    "Of course." Devin''s throat had gone dry. "Has something happened?"


    Carl''s expression darkened. "Two bodies were discovered in Nightdew Gardens this morning. Our investigation indicates they were patrons here last night."


    The color drained from Devin''s face as realization dawned. "The couple from the corner booth?"


    "Tell me about them." Carl''s pen hovered over his notebook, ready to capture every detail.


    "Let me check my log." Devin reached beneath the bar with trembling fingers, producing a worn leather notebook. The morning light filtering through the windows cast long shadows across its pages. "Last night was quieter than usual. The couple came in around 8:30."


    He flipped through the pages, his finger tracing along neat rows of handwritten entries. "They took the corner booth - the one with the old brass lamp. Started with gin and tonics, then switched to vodka lemonades." His voice softened. "They seemed so... happy. Couldn''t keep their hands off each other."


    Carl''s pen scratched against paper. "What about the other customers?"


    "Right." Devin''s brow furrowed in concentration. "Thomas was here - he works construction next door, comes in most nights. Three young guys were watching the Yankees game - two Duville students and Mike from the garage. They left when the game finished, around 11:15."


    He paused, remembering. "Professor Clarkwas in too - teaches at Lansnat Medical School. Always wears those plaid shirts. He got a phone call around 11:30, settled up and left." Devin''s expression changed subtly. "And Mr. Shimura..."


    "Mr. Shimura?" Carl caught the shift in the bartender''s tone.


    "Regular customer, works for the construction company. But last night..." Devin shook his head. "Something was off. He sat alone near the door, kept ordering whiskeys. Never seen him drink like that before."


    "Off how?"


    "Nervous. Kept wiping sweat from his face, even though it wasn''t warm. His eyes..." Devin gestured vaguely. "They kept darting around the room, like he was watching everyone. Or waiting for something. Stayed almost until closing."


    Carl leaned forward slightly. "Anyone else?"


    "One more." Devin''s voice dropped almost to a whisper. "A gentleman I''d never seen before. Silver hair, gold-rimmed glasses, expensive black suit. Carried an ebony cane. Only ordered a martini, but..." He hesitated.


    "But?"


    "The way he watched everyone. Like... like he knew something was going to happen. And then there was that strange cold..."


    "Cold?"


    "Around midnight. The temperature dropped suddenly - windows frosted over. I checked the thermostat, but everything was normal. Then the couple left, maybe 12:30. The girl could barely walk straight, her boyfriend supporting her. That gentleman in the glasses left right after them."


    Devin rubbed his arms, as if feeling that chill again. "Thomas stayed until after 1:00."


    Carl noted the slight pause. "You and Thomas - close?"


    "He''s... a regular." The words came carefully measured.


    "The bar has surveillance?"


    "Yes." Devin seemed relieved at the change of subject. "Covers the entrance, bar area, and most booths. I''ll get you the footage."


    Carl pocketed the USB drive, its weight feeling heavier than its size warranted. He slid a business card across the polished bar top. "If anything else comes to mind - even something that seems insignificant - call me. Any time."


    Devin scrawled his number on a cocktail napkin. "We''re open noon to 1:30. Though..." He glanced at the corner booth, its empty seats somehow more conspicuous in the morning light. "I suppose you know where to find me."


    Back in his unmarked car, Carl''s fingers drummed against the steering wheel as he called dispatch. "This is Detective Blackwood. I need all surveillance footage from a two-block radius around Le Petit Caf¨¦, between 11 PM and 1:30 AM."


    He was studying the bar''s security footage when a knock on the window startled him. Kim materialized from the morning mist like a ghost, his breath visible in the cool air.


    "Sir." The young detective slipped into the passenger seat, bringing with him the scent of coffee and early morning interviews. "Most residents were asleep, but Mrs. Williams on the second floor behind the bar might have something. Says she heard cats screaming in the alley around 1 AM."


    "The alley?" Carl''s laptop clicked shut. "Show me."


    Behind Le Petit Caf¨¦, the service alley stretched like a dark wound between old brick buildings. Dumpsters lined one wall, neat stacks of beer crates beside them. The morning light barely penetrated here, leaving shadows thick enough to hide secrets. Kim lifted one of the dumpster lids and froze.


    "Sir..."


    Carl approached, pulling on latex gloves. With careful movements, he lifted out the grey and white form of a cat. Its body was twisted unnaturally, as if something had wrung it like a wet cloth. Dried blood still caked the corners of its mouth.


    "Document everything," he told Kim, his eyes scanning the shadowed alley. "Get forensics down here. This isn''t coincidence."


    Back in the car, Carl''s laptop cast a blue glow across his face. "Look at this." He queued up surveillance footage. "11:28 - when Professor Clarkleaves."


    The footage showed the man in the plaid shirt pausing at the doorway, his attention caught by something off-screen.


    "Now here." The timestamp read 12:30. "When our victims left."


    The couple lingered in the same spot, their drunken sway momentarily stilled.


    "What were they looking at?" Kim leaned closer to the screen.


    "Shimura''s table." Carl''s voice was grim. "Still nursing that whiskey."


    Kim flipped through his notes. "It''s only fifteen minutes to the park using Main Street. Why take the path through the alley?"


    Carl closed the laptop, darkness settling back into the car. "Canvas the shops further out. I''ll work this area, see if we missed any witnesses. Run background checks on everyone in that bar last night."


    "Even the businessman?"


    "Especially the businessman." Carl started the engine. "And get me those toxicology results as soon as they''re in. Meet back at the station at two."


    As they pulled away from the curb, neither detective noticed the silver-haired gentleman watching from across the street, his gold-rimmed glasses catching the morning light like cat''s eyes.

 chapter2：Time and Testimony

    The surveillance footage flickered across Carl''s laptop screen for what felt like the hundredth time. His eyes burned, and he rubbed them wearily before glancing at the convenience store across the street. The autumn sun slanted through his windshield, casting a harsh glare on the storefront windows. Something had to be here ¨C some detail he was missing.


    The store''s glass door swung open with a soft chime. A young clerk stumbled out, arms laden with boxes, looking like he might doze off right there on the sidewalk.


    "Police." Carl flashed his badge as he approached, watching the kid snap to attention. "Need to see your surveillance footage from last night. Specifically between eleven and two."


    The clerk ¨C his name tag read "Mike" ¨C nodded quickly. "Yeah, I was working that shift. Pretty quiet night, actually." He led Carl inside, the store''s fluorescent lights humming overhead. "Saw the usual crowd from the bar down the street."


    As Mike pulled up the footage, Carl leaned against the counter, watching faces flicker past on the grainy screen: a blonde college student at eleven, three rowdy frat boys around eleven-twenty, a dark-haired woman in business attire, and then ¨C there ¨C at one-ten, a familiar figure. Thomas, the construction worker, swaying slightly but still steady on his feet.


    "Thomas comes in most nights," Mike offered, pausing the footage. "Always around the same time."


    On screen, Thomas wandered the aisles before grabbing two beers. He hesitated at the counter, then asked for something else ¨C condoms, Carl noted with interest. The combination nagged at him: late night, drunk construction worker, condoms. Something about Devin''s earlier hesitation when discussing Thomas clicked into place. Their relationship clearly wasn''t as straightforward as it had seemed.


    "Did he leave right after?"


    Mike nodded toward the side door. "Headed down that alley ¨C it''s a shortcut to the construction site."


    Carl made a mental note, his mind already shifting to his next stop. That medical school lecturer''s behavior warranted a closer look...


    Lansnat Medical School loomed ahead, its red brick facade darkened by the morning shadows. The classical architecture stood in stark contrast to the stream of students hurrying past with their backpacks and coffee cups, lost in conversation about upcoming exams and weekend plans.


    Inside, the receptionist ¨C a woman with wire-rimmed glasses and perfectly coiffed gray hair ¨C looked up from her computer as Carl approached.


    "Professor Clark?" She frowned, consulting her screen. "That''s odd. He called in sick last night ¨C first time in years. He''s usually quite religious about attendance during term."


    "I need his home address," Carl said, watching her hesitation. "There was a homicide near campus last night. Just following up with everyone in the area."


    She typed briefly, then lowered her voice. "17 Winchester Street. And Detective? He''s one of our best ¨C twenty years teaching here, never missed a day until now."


    Winchester Street was all classical elegance and carefully tended gardens. Number 17 stood slightly apart, its weathered brass nameplate reading "H. Clark" partially obscured by climbing ivy. Carl''s knock echoed in the morning quiet.


    "Who is it?" The voice from within was cautious, strained.


    "Detective Carl Blackwood." He held his badge up to the peephole.


    "About last night at Le Petit Caf¨¦."The door opened just enough to reveal a haggard face. Professor Clark looked like he hadn''t slept in days, his academic''s composure cracking around the edges.


    "A homicide?" Clark''s voice cracked slightly. "I don''t... what does that have to do with me?"


    "Someone who was at the bar last night is dead," Carl kept his tone neutral. "We''re talking to everyone who was there."


    Clark glanced nervously over his shoulder before widening the door. In the better light, Carl could see the full extent of his exhaustion ¨C rumpled clothes, dark circles under bloodshot eyes, shoulders stooped with more than just fatigue.


    "Please," Clark whispered urgently, "keep your voice down. My wife¡ª"


    "Clark?" A melodious voice floated down from upstairs. "Do we have company?"


    "It''s nothing, darling," Clark called back, his voice shifting to forced cheerfulness. "Just someone asking directions."


    "Henry Clark," the voice carried a gentle reproach, "you''ve never been able to lie to me. Please invite your guest up for tea."


    Carl followed Clark up the carpeted stairs, each step muffled in thick wool. The hallway walls told their own story - elegant landscapes in gilded frames, and one striking black-and-white photograph that caught his eye: a young ballerina captured mid-leap, her form suspended in a moment of perfect grace. Sunlight streamed through the tall window at the hall''s end, casting long shadows across their path.


    Clark paused at the master bedroom door, his knuckles barely grazing the wood. "Elizabeth? I''ve brought our... visitor."


    "Come in, come in." The voice that answered held warmth like honey.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    The room beyond stopped Carl in his tracks. Pale blue wallpaper caught the morning light, white lace curtains dancing in the breeze from an open window. A massive four-poster bed dominated the space, its sheets crisp and white as fresh snow. On the bedside table, white roses drooped heavy with morning dew in a crystal vase.


    But it was Elizabeth Clark who commanded the room. She reclined against a mountain of pillows, golden hair cascading over her shoulders, her presence somehow both fragile and magnetic. Even in a simple silk dressing gown, she carried herself with the unmistakable poise of a dancer. Those striking blue eyes fixed on Carl with immediate warmth, as if he were an old friend dropping by for tea rather than a detective investigating a murder.


    "Welcome," she smiled, gesturing to a delicate tea service arranged on a nearby table. "Please, sit. The Earl Grey is still hot."


    Clark hovered nearby, a shadow of anxiety crossing his face. The contrast between his disheveled appearance and his wife''s immaculate composure was striking.


    "Henry." Elizabeth''s voice softened as she reached for her husband''s hand. "My dear worrier. Always thinking he''s somehow failed me."


    As Clark started to protest, she shook her head. "I''m the luckiest woman alive to have such a husband. What more could I ask for?"


    Clark''s eyes glistened as he ducked his head. Elizabeth squeezed his hand before turning back to Carl, her smile conspiratorial. "We met at a university dance, you know. Henry was this adorably shy medical student, and I was..." she winked, "well, let''s say I was a rather headstrong dance major. Who would have thought that boy who could barely ask me to dance would become such a distinguished military surgeon?"


    Her voice carried the warmth of well-worn memories. "After my accident five years ago, I thought everything was over. But Henry..." She looked at her husband with such tenderness that Carl had to glance away. "He''s been my rock, my constant. Every day, every moment."


    Clark''s hands trembled slightly as he poured the tea, the china cup rattling against its saucer.


    Carl cleared his throat softly, reluctant to break the intimate atmosphere. "Mrs. Clark, I apologize for the intrusion. I''m actually here investigating a homicide that occurred near Le Petit Caf¨¦ last night. Your husband was there, and we''re speaking with everyone who¡ª"


    "Oh, good heavens," Elizabeth''s hand flew to her throat, genuine distress crossing her features.


    "How dreadful. May they rest in peace."She paused, something flickering behind those clear eyes. Carl found himself leaning forward slightly, drawn in despite his professional instincts.


    "I need to verify your husband''s whereabouts after he left the bar," he said, keeping his voice gentle.


    "Of course, Detective." Elizabeth''s fingers intertwined with her husband''s.


    "Henry came straight home and stayed with me all night. I wasn''t well, you see ¨C my heart was giving me trouble again. He never left my side."


    Carl watched the wordless exchange between husband and wife, feeling an unexpected pang of loneliness. His own finger traced the pale band of skin where his wedding ring had once sat.


    "Mrs. Clark, could you be more specific about the timing? When exactly did your husband return home?"


    "11:52 PM precisely," Elizabeth replied without hesitation. "Henry read to me from his old poetry collection ¨C the one he wrote during our courtship." A faint blush colored Clark''s cheeks.


    "You''re certain about that exact time?"


    "Oh yes," Elizabeth''s smile held absolute conviction. "I''ve always had an uncanny sense for time, Detective. It''s rather a talent of mine."


    Something about her unwavering certainty, about the perfect tableau before him ¨C it struck a discordant note in Carl''s mind. But looking into those clear eyes, hearing that assured tone, he couldn''t detect even a hint of deception.


    After leaving his card, Carl stepped out into the autumn sunshine. The warmth on his face did nothing to dispel the peculiar sense of unease that had settled over him. The Clarks were picture-perfect, almost too perfect ¨C the kind of couple that made others ache with envy.


    His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn''t eaten since dawn. As he drove through the quiet streets, his mind churned over the morning''s conversations. A small restaurant caught his eye ¨C nothing fancy, just a clean storefront with slightly faded lettering.


    The bell above the door chimed as he entered, and he froze mid-step. There, at a corner table, sat a figure that matched the bartender''s description exactly.


    Carl slowed his pace, pretending to survey the room while studying the man. The details sharpened with each step: a perfectly tailored black overcoat hung open, revealing an impeccable charcoal suit beneath. His trousers were clearly bespoke wool from the Northern Realms, and his round-toed leather shoes gleamed like polished mirrors. A black bowler hat sat precisely centered on the table, beside an ebony cane with a silver handle. But it was his face that commanded attention ¨C those piercing ice-blue eyes behind gold-rimmed spectacles, and that precisely trimmed silver beard, each hair as sharp as steel wire.


    "Mind if I join you?" Carl asked, though the restaurant was half-empty and they both knew it.


    The gentleman continued methodically cutting his medium-rare ribeye, the soft clink of silver against china mixing with the restaurant''s ambient jazz.


    Carl settled into the opposite chair as a waiter appeared with a menu."That looks excellent," Carl commented, pretending to study the menu while watching his companion. "The house specialty, isn''t it? They''re known for their precise timing with the tenderloin cut ¨C keeps the texture just right."


    The man took a measured sip of red wine from his crystal glass, the sunlight catching the deep burgundy liquid like blood.


    "Speaking of timing," Carl continued casually, "what''s your preference for pairing? Some swear by cabernet, others prefer a classic martini."


    The gentleman''s knife paused mid-cut, just for a fraction of a second, before resuming its precise movement. After dabbing his lips with a crisp white napkin, he spoke in a voice like aged whiskey over gravel: "The rotation, life from beginning to end."


    "I beg your pardon?" Carl leaned forward slightly, but the man had already returned to his methodical dining.


    Carl placed his badge on the table. "Actually, I''m investigating a homicide in the area. I''d like to ask you a few questions."


    Without missing a beat, the gentleman reached into his coat and produced a worn leather wallet, placing his identification beside Carl''s badge. The name read: Rabinsey King Steve, born in Leeds. The photograph perfectly captured those unsettling blue eyes.


    "Leads," Carl said, studying the ID. "Fine city. Known for its jade, excellent wines," he paused deliberately, "and its gentlemen."


    "I''m an antique dealer," the man replied, his accent cultured and precise. "I travel extensively, seeking items of... particular value."


    "You were at Le Petit Caf¨¦ last night."


    A slight nod as he carved another perfect bite of steak.


    "Someone died last night," Carl watched carefully for any reaction. "A couple who''d been at that bar."


    The soft jazz continued to play, filling the silence between them. When the gentleman finally looked up, Carl felt a chill race down his spine. Those eyes ¨C they reminded him of arctic ice, beautiful and utterly devoid of warmth. For a moment, he felt like a mouse that had accidentally caught a predator''s attention.Fighting down his unease, Carl pressed on.


    "Could you tell me when you left the bar? Where did you go afterward? Did you notice anything unusual?"


    "Departed around midnight," the gentleman replied, his voice as smooth as the wine in his glass. "Retired to the Moonlight Hotel. Slept until dawn." He dabbed his lips again. "The front desk can verify my movements."


    He began to rise, every motion deliberate and elegant.


    "Wait," Carl said quickly. "How long do you plan to stay in town?"


    "I''ll remain at the Moonlight Hotel for the foreseeable future." His tone suggested the conversation was over.


    Carl quickly offered his card. "If you remember anything ¨C even the smallest detail..."


    The gentleman accepted the card with gloved fingers, tucking it into his waistcoat pocket before gathering his hat and cane. Carl watched through the window as the black-clad figure disappeared around the corner, moving with the fluid grace of a shadow.


    He lingered over his own meal, jotting notes in his weathered notebook. Something about the self-proclaimed antique dealer nagged at him ¨C that perfect composure masking... what?


    The Moonlight Hotel rose before him twenty minutes later, its classical architecture a reminder of more elegant times.The heavy glass doors whispered across thick carpet as he entered, a brass bell announcing his presence.


    The receptionist glanced up from a dog-eared magazine, her round glasses catching the afternoon light. At the sight of Carl''s badge, she straightened, smoothing her cardigan with nervous fingers.


    "I''m inquiring about a guest," Carl said. "Rabinsey King Steve."


    "Mr. Steve?" She adjusted her glasses, fingers dancing across the keyboard. "Yes, checked in last night. Room 305."


    "I need the exact check-in time."


    She squinted at the screen. "12:50 AM, approximately."


    "Show me the surveillance footage."


    The security office was a cramped space dominated by flickering monitors. Carl leaned forward, watching as the timestamp clicked toward midnight. There ¨C 12:52 AM. The distinctive figure appeared in frame: black overcoat, bowler hat, silver-tipped cane. The gentleman completed his check-in with fluid efficiency, then vanished into the elevator. Subsequent footage showed no movement from Room 305 until morning.


    "First time guest?" Carl asked the security guard, who was nursing a cup of coffee gone cold.


    "Yeah," the guard checked his logs. "Paid cash for a week up front. Premium suite."


    Carl''s pen scratched across his notebook: Alibi confirmed, 12:52 AM check-in. But questions multiplied like shadows at dusk. Who was this elegant stranger with his cryptic words? What did he mean by "The rotation, life from beginning to end"?

 chapter3：Unraveling Shadows

    The conference room door swung open at two. Carl stepped in, greeted by the familiar blend of stale coffee and paperwork that seemed to permeate every major case briefing.


    The scene before him was grimly familiar. Howard had commandeered one end of the table, his glasses sliding down his nose as he pored over the autopsy report. The CSI team, led by Pike, had transformed the rest of the table into a mosaic of crime scene photos - each one a frozen moment from last night''s horror show. The usual markers were there: blood spatter, personal effects, body positions. All tagged and numbered with the kind of precision that would make an accountant proud.


    Brown and Smith had just returned from their morning rounds, their hushed conversation punctuated by the occasional rustle of witness statements. At the front of the room, Lawrence was in his element, marker squeaking against whiteboards as he mapped out connections that only he could see. The department''s stenographers had claimed their usual perch by the window, while Jones, their family liaison officer, was speaking softly into her phone, exhaustion evident in every word. Kim sat in his corner, methodically sorting through the morning''s findings.


    The wall clock ticked away, each second a reminder of time slipping through their fingers. The room had seen its share of difficult cases, but something about this one felt different. Heavier.


    The murmur of voices died as Superintendent Alexander walked in, his presence filling the room.


    "Right," he said, settling into his chair. "Let''s get started."


    Howard adjusted his glasses and flipped open the report. "Both victims had astronomical BAC levels. Daisy was at point-three-two, Dasco at point-two-eight.Both individuals tested positive for amphetamines, with levels insufficient to be fatal but enough to impair judgment."


    He spread out several autopsy photos. "Cause of death in both cases was exsanguination from neck wounds. Clean cuts, consistent depth of four-point-eight centimeters, practically identical on both victims." He traced a line across one of the photos. "Based on the wound characteristics, we''re looking at a single-edged blade, minimum twelve centimeters long. There''s some subtle serration marking on the wound edges - could be from a specialized hunting knife. Time of death estimate puts it between one and two AM."


    Pike took over, unfolding a heavily annotated document. "The infrastructure situation at Nightdew Gardens is more complicated than we thought." He grimaced. "There''s been an ongoing issue with faulty streetlights and unreliable CCTV equipment in that zone. Maintenance logs show seven outstanding repair requests. Most recent one was filed three weeks ago."


    Brown leafed through a thick dossier. "Our victims'' social circles had significant overlap. They met through the university drama society last September. Daisy was active - dance classes, drama club, Modern Arts Association, Photography Club. Dasko wrote for the campus paper, ran the lit club."


    He flipped another page. "Financials show Daisy getting 3000 monthly from home. Dasco worked part-time at the library - about eight hundred a month, plus fifteen hundred from his mother. They split a twelve-hundred-a-month apartment."


    Smith leaned forward. "There''s been a shift in their spending patterns over the past month." He tapped a bank statement. "Suddenly they''re regulars at Le Petit Caf¨¦ - three, four times a week. And Daisy made an unusual cash withdrawal last week - 5000."


    Pike cleared his throat. "Something else. We found a notebook in Daisy''s bag filled with what looks like code - symbols and numbers we can''t make sense of."


    Kim raised his hand. "There''s more. A cat was found mutilated in the alley behind the bar." The room went still. Howard quickly added, "The cat''s neck was snapped - no drugs in its system." Kim continued, "The CCTV in that area was completely dark that night. And the beat cop assigned to that zone called in sick - no replacement was sent."


    A heavy silence fell over the room. All eyes turned to Carl, waiting for him to make sense of the darkness they were wading through.


    Carl pushed away from his chair and walked to the whiteboard.


    "I stopped by Le Petit Caf¨¦ this afternoon," he said, writing the name in block letters. "The bartender, Devin, confirmed our victims were there. Security footage shows them arriving at eight-thirty. Started with gin and tonics, then moved on to four rounds of lemon vodka."


    He sketched out a quick timeline. "We had several other players in the mix that night. There was Rabinsay Jin Steve - claims he''s an antiques dealer out of Leeds. Henry Clark - ex-military doctor who lectures at Lansnart Medical. A construction worker named Thomas, and some salary man called Shimura who says he works at one of the local firms." Carl paused, tapping the marker against the board. "Something off about how Devin reacted when I mentioned Thomas. Also had three younger guys in there - two Duville students and a mechanic."


    He drew a series of connecting lines. "Convenience store camera picked up our three young friends leaving at eleven-thirty. Thomas shows up at the store at one-ten, buys beer and condoms. Clark''s wife vouches for him being home on Winchester Street by eleven-fifty-two - says he didn''t go out again. Our antiques dealer claims he left after midnight. Checked into Moonlight Hotel at twelve-fifty-two, no movement after that."


    Lawrence stepped up to the second whiteboard, sketching a rough map. "Nightdew Gardens- our crime scene - is about a mile and change from Le Petit Caf¨¦. Ten, fifteen-minute walk." He marked key locations in red. "Bodies were posed under the lamppost, arranged to look... intimate. Their expressions suggest they were killed at the moment of..." He cleared his throat. "Well, you get the picture."If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    The room fell silent again. Lawrence continued, "Whoever did this knew what they were doing. Hit the carotid with surgical precision."


    Superintendent Alexander drummed his fingers on the table. "Priorities?"


    "First," Brown said, "we need to ID those three young men. The Duville students especially - might have known our victims."


    "Second," Smith added, "Clark and our antiques dealer need a closer look. One''s got medical training, the other''s supposedly from Daisy''s hometown. Both worth digging into."


    "That sick leave timing is suspicious as hell," Pike chimed in. "Tech team''s working on why we lost camera coverage."


    "We need to trace that 5000 withdrawal," Lawrence said, pointing to the timeline. "She pulled it out Tuesday, week before the murder. Left campus between two and four that afternoon."


    "And the others need checking too,"Carl said.


    "I''m set to interview the salary man. Kim, can you run down contact details and addresses for Shimura and Thomas?"


    Carl glanced at Alexander, who nodded. "After that, we should talk to the local homeless population. Both the park and the bar area usually have regulars."


    "On it," Kim said, pen moving across his notepad.


    "Alright, people." Alexander surveyed the room. "It''s three-twenty. Brown, Smith - track down those three kids, but keep it low-key. Pike, coordinate with local precincts for additional manpower to expand the search radius. I''ll assign extra bodies to monitor our bar patrons from that night. Carl, stay on the remaining witnesses. Jones, keep working the families - they might have something new for us when they arrive tomorrow. Howard, I need that autopsy report and tech analysis fast-tracked."


    The dismissal sent chairs scraping across the floor. Carl lingered at the whiteboard, finger tracing the intersecting timelines. Somewhere in this maze of times and places and faces, there was a thread waiting to be pulled.


    The receptionist at the architectural firm blinked when Carl flashed his badge. "Shimura Yu?" She frowned slightly. "Oh, from Archives... One moment, please." She picked up her phone, cycling through several extensions before finding the right one.


    Down in Archives, Shimura was filing documents when word came down that police were asking for him. His hand froze mid-motion, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead.


    He emerged from his basement domain with a slight stoop - an occupational hazard of document work. Curious eyes followed him down the hallway. The usually invisible "Archives Shimura" was suddenly police business. He could hear the whispers trailing behind him, spurring his feet to move faster.


    In the lobby, he found Carl waiting. Adjusting his glasses nervously, he managed a soft, "Hello."


    Carl led them to a corner caf¨¦. Shimura chose a seat near the back, fingers drumming quietly on the table.


    A waiter appeared with menus. "Latte," Carl said, then looked to Shimura.


    "No... no, thank you," Shimura murmured. The waiter nodded and disappeared.


    "I need to ask you a few questions," Carl said.


    "Of course," Shimura replied, head down, fingers still tapping their quiet rhythm on the tabletop.


    "You were at Le Petit Caf¨¦ last night?"


    Shimura''s posture stiffened slightly. "Yes... I go sometimes."


    "How long were you there?"


    "Arrived around... nine," he hesitated, eyes darting nervously, "left about one-thirty, I think."


    "Notice any students from Duville College ? Young couple?"


    The tapping stopped. Shimura paused, then answered, "I... I''m not sure. I usually keep to myself in the corner."


    "Mind telling me what this is about?" Shimura suddenly looked up, lips bloodless.


    Carl studied him, noting the pallor of his lips. "There was a murder last night," he said evenly.


    Shimura''s tremor was enough to make the coffee cups rattle. He fumbled for his handkerchief, dabbing at his forehead while struggling to steady his voice. "M-murder?"


    "Yes. Near Le Petit Caf¨¦. The couple was killed." Carl watched as the corner of Shimura''s handkerchief grew damp.


    "You spent quite a while at the bar. Tell me what you saw."


    "I... I really don''t remember much," Shimura''s voice barely carried across the table. "I was just drinking..."


    "For four hours?" Carl pressed. "What were you doing all that time?"


    "Just... just drinking," Shimura''s fingers resumed their nervous dance on the tabletop.


    "What were you drinking?"


    "W-whiskey. Just kept ordering whiskey."


    "How many?"


    "Four, maybe five... I''m not certain."


    "How often did the server check on you?"


    "Twice, I think."


    Carl pulled out paper and pen, sliding them across. "Show me where you were sitting."


    Shimura''s shaking hand sketched a rough layout.


    "This spot," Carl tapped the mark, "gives you a clear view of the back entrance, doesn''t it?"


    Another dab at his forehead. "Y-yes."


    "Besides the couple, anyone catch your eye? Anyone unusual?"


    "No... no one particular."


    "Did Devin, the bartender, interact with the couple?"


    "I... I''m not sure. Maybe."


    "Front door or back when you left at one-thirty?"


    "F-front door."


    "Did you see them leave?"


    "Wasn''t paying attention."


    "How many people were still there when you left?"


    Shimura seemed to struggle with the memory, but Carl caught the evasion in his eyes. "Can''t remember clearly," he stammered.


    The pressure was clearly getting to him. Each question felt like another weight on his shoulders. Carl could see him yearning for the safety of his archive room, that quiet corner where no one ever noticed him.


    His voice rose slightly before dropping again. "There might have been... a man in a trench coat. Some young men."


    "Three young men? A man in a floral shirt? A construction worker? A well-dressed gentleman?" Carl pressed.


    "I... I suppose so." Shimura''s attempt at recollection seemed forced.


    Carl''s gaze sharpened momentarily, making Shimura flinch, before deliberately softening his expression.


    "Heavy drinkers often have trouble remembering," Carl said mildly, though mentally he was flagging every one of Shimura''s reactions as suspicious. The man might as well have been wearing a sign saying ''I''m involved.''


    "Was the couple arguing?" Carl switched tacks abruptly.


    Shimura''s pupils contracted. "I... didn''t notice." But his fingers were white-knuckled on the tablecloth.


    "Other witnesses mentioned a disagreement," Carl said, keeping his eyes on Shimura''s face.


    Shimura was sweating through his shirt now. He knew he was being tested but couldn''t tell how much Carl actually knew. Every question felt like a trap. He wanted nothing more than to flee this tiny caf¨¦ table, escape this relentless officer''s gaze.


    A phone rang.


    Shimura''s relief was palpable. "Excuse me, may I...?" He looked at Carl pleadingly.


    Carl nodded. Shimura grabbed for the phone like a lifeline. "Yes... yes, sir... sorry... right away..."


    He ended the call with barely concealed desperation. "Officer, I... I really must go. My supervisor says there''s urgent work..."


    "One last thing," Carl said, quiet but firm. "Any idea what they might have been arguing about?"


    "I... I don''t know." His voice pitched up before dropping again. "I really don''t know."


    Carl studied him. He knew Shimura was close to breaking, but pushing harder now would be counterproductive. Sometimes you had to let the small fish go to catch the bigger one later.


    "Alright, Mr. Shimura, we''ll leave it here for today." Carl tore off a piece of paper, wrote his number, and placed it in front of Shimura. "My contact details. I apologize for taking up your time, but if you remember anything - no matter how small - please call me." His look clearly said: If you''re involved, you can''t hide forever.


    Shimura grabbed the paper with trembling fingers and practically fled the caf¨¦, his steps unsteady.


    Watching Shimura''s retreating form, Carl allowed himself a small smile and pulled out his phone. "Kim? Put whatever you''re doing on hold. Remember our office worker, Shimura Yu? I need your help. Meet me at his residence."

 Chapter4: Shadows and Suspects

    A sudden autumn rain had soaked the surface of Lancer Avenue. At the very end of that old street stood the Ritchie Apartments¡ªfive red-brick buildings, each six stories high, arranged in a neat row like forgotten giants lingering in a neglected corner of the city. Between the buildings, a few plane trees swayed, their faded leaves trembling in the cold wind.


    Carl¡¯s patrol car was parked in front of Building No. 3. A passing maintenance worker was sweeping away puddles, and the sound of the broom scraping the wet ground echoed distinctly in the quiet courtyard.


    The manager¡¯s office was on the first floor, to the left. Though it was part of the same red-brick structure, it seemed conspicuously smaller. Through the yellowed glass window, Carl could see Mrs. Maggie watching the midday news. As soon as she spotted him, the widow in her sixties rose to open the door.


    ¡°Hello, Officer.¡± She still had breadcrumbs on her apron. ¡°I was just about to make some tea.¡±


    A damp, musty smell hung in the tiny manager¡¯s office. The walls were plastered with faded notices. An old television set broadcasted the news at a low volume, its voices barely audible.


    ¡°This place used to be so lively,¡± said Mrs. Maggie, bringing over two steaming cups of black tea in chipped porcelain cups. ¡°This used to be downtown before they built the subway. But now..." She sighed, gazing out the window at the empty courtyard. ¡°The young folks have all moved on. Who¡¯s left are either the elderly or people living alone.¡±


    Carl took a cup and surveyed the cramped room. In one corner were some parcels, likely packages she was holding for tenants. ¡°How long have you worked here?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Close to twenty years,¡± she replied, her eyes softening. ¡°I¡¯ve watched this place go from bustling to run-down. By the way, Officer, about Mr. Shimura¡ª¡± She paused suddenly. ¡°Has something happened to him?¡±


    ¡°No, just a routine inquiry,¡± Carl said casually, his gaze lingering on a set of faded tenancy rules tacked to the wall.


    ¡°Mr. Shimura is a good man,¡± Mrs. Maggie said at once, a note of sympathy in her voice. ¡°He¡¯s always so polite, often offering to help me with chores and taking out the trash. Whenever I see him come back alone, I can¡¯t help feeling a bit sorry for him.¡± She fiddled with her teacup. ¡°He drifts through the city with no relatives or friends, always on his own. Sometimes he comes home a bit drunk, but he never bothers anyone.¡±


    "He lives alone on the sixth floor," Mrs. Maggie said. "The entire floor is empty except for him. Must be lonely up there."


    ¡°Are all the other apartments on the sixth floor empty?¡± Carl set down his teacup, its porcelain clinking softly against the wooden table.


    ¡°May I take a look upstairs?¡±


    ¡°Why not? Nobody¡¯s living there anyway.¡±


    Mrs. Maggie enthusiastically removed a ring of keys from the wall.


    The elevator was old and creaked with each movement. Carl noted that the panel only listed floors one through six, with no basement option. On the sixth floor, the musty odor was stronger. At the end of the corridor, a flickering fluorescent light lent the place a strangely eerie feel.


    Mrs. Maggie opened the door to Apartment 601, and dust motes danced in the air. Facing south, the room was well-lit. Carl stepped onto the balcony, taking in a full view of the courtyard. His eyes drifted toward Building No. 5¡ªApartment 403¡ªwhere, according to Agent Smith¡¯s earlier intel, that couple had once lived before they met their end.


    ¡°From here, can you see everything on the fourth floor of Building No. 5?¡± he asked suddenly.


    ¡°The view¡¯s not great from here,¡± Mrs. Maggie said, joining him on the balcony. She pointed to 602 next door. ¡°But Mr. Shimura¡¯s place over there has a much better vantage point. When he first rented the apartment, he even mentioned how you could see everything across the way from that balcony.¡±


    Carl noted her words silently, his mind turning them over as he studied the gap between the two buildings.


    ¡°By the way, Mrs. Maggie,¡± he changed the subject, ¡°did you see Mr. Shimura come home last night?¡±


    ¡°No, I went to bed around eleven-thirty,¡± she said, twisting her fingers nervously. ¡°But he¡¯s always quiet. Even if he did come back, I might not have heard him.¡±


    ¡°There should be security cameras, right?¡±


    Mrs. Maggie¡¯s expression became uneasy. ¡°It¡¯s odd, really. The surveillance system has been acting up lately¡ªsometimes it works, sometimes it doesn¡¯t. We reported it to the security company. They sent people to check, but whenever they came by, the system worked just fine, so eventually they just dropped the matter.¡±


    After parting ways with Mrs. Maggie, Carl sat in his patrol car, thinking over the clues he¡¯d gathered. Another faulty camera system, suspicious timing, the victims¡¯ apartment positioned so close to Shimura¡¯s. From Shimura¡¯s unit, he could observe the victims¡¯ every move. Rationally, it seemed possible that Shimura was the killer¡ªhe had the best opportunity. But what was the motive?


    Rain drummed steadily against the windshield, matching his gloomy thoughts.


    Kim returned to the car after wrapping up his part of the investigation. He slid into the passenger seat, bringing in the damp scent of rain.


    ¡°I¡¯ve asked around,¡± Kim said, flipping through a slightly damp notebook. ¡°On the third floor lives an elderly couple. They say they have no impression of Shimura¡ªnever even heard of him. The fourth floor houses a blind man named Morris. He said he went to bed early last night, right after listening to the evening news at ten. In 502, there¡¯s a woman named Linda,¡± he paused, ¡°she says Shimura always walks hunched over like a frightened rodent. When she runs into him and greets him, he never looks her in the eye, never responds. Instead, he scurries off immediately.¡±


    Carl listened as he watched the world blur behind the rain-streaked windshield. For a moment, reality felt oddly unreal. The wipers swished back and forth rhythmically. His gaze settled on a surveillance camera mounted on a lamppost outside. Its blinking red light reminded him of what Mrs. Maggie said about the apartment¡¯s faulty cameras.


    He pieced together the timeline in his mind: Shimura left Le Petit Caf¨¦ after one in the morning. It took fifteen minutes to get from the bar to the park, and another twenty or so to get from the park to his apartment. The coroner¡¯s report placed the time of death between two and three in the morning.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    ¡°That¡¯s a bit too convenient,¡± Carl muttered. ¡°And the motive? Crimes of passion?¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s too convenient? What motive?¡± Kim asked.


    ¡°Shimura¡¯s choice of apartment,¡± Carl said. ¡°Top floor, best view, directly across from the victims¡¯ place. Mrs. Maggie says he often helped her with the trash. Doesn¡¯t that strike you as odd? A man who never looks anyone in the face, who keeps his head down, yet he¡¯s proactively doing favors?¡±


    ¡°Maybe he just wanted to seem friendly?¡± Kim suggested.


    ¡°And the surveillance,¡± Carl went on, ¡°it¡¯s erratic. Always happens to fail at the wrong times, and magically works again whenever technicians come. Too perfect.¡±


    He lifted his phone and called headquarters: ¡°Check into the security company in charge of Ritchie Apartments¡ªfocus on their repair logs for the past week or two. Find out who was dispatched for repairs. Also, review all regional surveillance feeds, especially the routes between Le Petit Caf¨¦ and Nightdew Gardens, from half past midnight to three in the morning.¡±


    ¡°Boss,¡± Kim spoke up, ¡°I spotted something interesting in the trash room downstairs. In a bag labeled with Shimura¡¯s name, there was an expired adult magazine wrapped around some camera cleaning supplies.¡±


    Carl frowned. ¡°Check his bank records. See if there were any large purchases recently.¡±


    Kim nodded. ¡°I¡¯ve started the process, but without solid evidence linking him to the crime, it¡¯ll take days due to privacy laws. We can¡¯t just bypass them.¡±


    Rain drummed louder on the windshield. Carl looked at the indistinct silhouette of Building No. 5. Something important was hidden among these seemingly unrelated details. ¡°Kim, go back to HQ. Report the progress. Have them list Shimura as a prime suspect. How many officers are watching him now?¡±


    ¡°Just two, taking shifts,¡± Kim replied. ¡°They¡¯re local patrolmen.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not nearly enough,¡± Carl said. ¡°Request more manpower from headquarters. Keep a close eye on Shimura.¡±


    ¡°What about you, Chief?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going to speak to another patron from the bar last night.¡±


    Fisher Street lay under a dull gray sky. A construction site¡¯s tower crane thrust like a giant iron arm into the gloom. Outside the site, muddy tracks ran across the ground, and an excavator roared as it pushed aside puddles, sending up sprays of brownish sludge.


    Carl parked by the construction gate. The faded ¡°WILSON Construction Company¡± sign clung to a corrugated fence, under which a few peeling safety notices lingered. In the guardhouse, an older security guard was dozing.


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± Carl tapped on the glass, ¡°I¡¯m looking for Thomas Yamia.¡±


    The guard jerked awake, blinking in confusion. ¡°Thomas? What do you want with him?¡±


    Carl flashed his badge. ¡°I need to ask him some questions.¡±


    In an instant, the guard¡¯s demeanor changed. ¡°An officer! Did that bastard finally do something bad? I knew he was trouble, bound to happen eventually.¡±


    Carl felt a flicker of annoyance at the guard¡¯s glee."That''s not the issue," Carl said curtly. "Where can I find him?"


    ¡°Of course, Officer. Fourth floor, east side. Works alone, that one. Want me to call him down?¡±


    ¡°No need, I¡¯ll go find him myself,¡± Carl said curtly.


    Crossing the muddy site, Carl entered the skeletal building. Steel and concrete beams were exposed to the damp air, which smelled of wet cement and lime. The temporary elevator was out of service, so he took the stairs.


    Each floor felt emptier than the last. The second floor had piles of red bricks; the third was scattered with construction materials. The voices of workers and the roar of machinery faded as he ascended.


    On the fourth floor landing, he heard the clang of metal.


    Thomas was working alone in the eastern section, hefting steel pipes. He wore mud-stained work pants and a sweat-soaked vest. His short silver hair had a metallic sheen in the dull light, highlighting his sharply chiseled features.


    ¡°Thomas Yamia?¡± Carl showed his badge. ¡°Detective Carl, Major Crimes.¡±


    Thomas didn¡¯t even look up, continuing to lift a five-meter-long steel pipe with one hand, as if it weighed nothing. Carl noticed a fresh wound on his arm, a dark red scab not fully healed.


    ¡°I need to ask about something that happened at Le Petit Caf¨¦ last night,¡± Carl said.


    Thomas finally paused, turning to face him. He stood a good head taller than Carl, his brown eyes flickering with a dangerous intensity. Carl had seen eyes like that before¡ªeyes that reminded him of a predator poised to strike.


    ¡°What do you want to know?¡± Thomas asked in a low, raspy voice, like metal scraping metal. ¡°Ask away.¡±


    ¡°Do you frequent that bar?¡±


    ¡°From the site to the bar is half an hour,¡± Thomas said, resuming his work. ¡°After shift, I go there for a couple of drinks.¡±


    ¡°What time did you arrive last night?¡±


    ¡°Around ten-thirty.¡± The clang of steel pipes echoed in the empty space.


    ¡°How late did you stay?¡±


    ¡°Past one.¡±


    ¡°Did you see that couple?¡±


    Thomas stopped again. ¡°I saw them.¡±


    ¡°What were they doing?¡±


    ¡°Making out in the corner booth.¡± His tone grew colder.


    ¡°Did you notice them arguing?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Other witnesses say they had a fierce quarrel.¡±


    ¡°I said no,¡± Thomas repeated, voice taut with impatience.


    ¡°And you were¡­?¡±


    "Look," Thomas snapped. "I had a few drinks and talked to some people. Whatever anyone else did isn''t my business."


    Carl felt the tension rising, but pressed on: ¡°Have you noticed anything unusual about Shimura¡ª?¡±


    ¡°You mean that stray dog of a man,¡± Thomas interrupted, voice dripping with contempt.


    ¡°Did he do anything suspicious?¡±


    ¡°I told you, what other people do is none of my business.¡±


    Carl saw Thomas¡¯s muscles tense, veins standing out like cords. Still, he tried: ¡°You spoke with the bartender,Devin. What did you two talk about?¡±


    Thomas didn¡¯t answer. He simply stared, his silence a loaded weapon.


    ¡°What¡¯s your relationship with Devin?¡±


    Before the question was fully out, Thomas lunged with the steel pipe. It sliced the air close to Carl¡¯s face, forcing him to recoil. Carl¡¯s hand flew to his holster, but as he looked into Thomas¡¯s eyes, a primal dread seized him. If he drew his gun, he might not be fast enough. Thomas looked like he could run him through before Carl could even aim.


    The fear felt utterly real and paralyzing.


    ¡°I¡¯m done talking,¡± Thomas said, voice distant and cold. ¡°Now get out.¡±


    Carl suppressed a tremor in his legs and hurried away. Back in his car, he gasped for air, his heart pounding. ¡°Damn it!¡± He slammed his fist against the steering wheel, knuckles whitening.


    Rain beat against the windshield, the tower crane looming in the distance like some enormous beast. In twenty years as a cop, he¡¯d never retreated during an interrogation, but that sense of visceral dread¡­


    ¡°Pike, do you have any extra personnel?¡± Carl spoke into his phone after a moment, still catching his breath. ¡°Check on a Thomas Yamia at Wilson Construction Company. Also, have someone talk to that guard. He might know something. If you see anything suspicious about that man, don¡¯t act rashly. He¡¯s extremely dangerous.¡±


    After hanging up, Carl felt drained, as if something had siphoned away all his strength.


    A construction vehicle rumbled by, splashing mud on the windshield. Carl gazed up at the gray sky, suddenly feeling as if this city were becoming unfamiliar territory.


    After the rain, dusk settled softly over the city. The setting sun broke through the clouds, bathing the city in golden light. Plane trees along the street shimmered in the breeze, raindrops sliding off their leaves and catching the light like tiny crystals.


    Carl sat by the window in the Helena Restaurant. The d¨¦cor was simple yet tasteful¡ªbeige wallpaper hung with a few impressionist reproductions, and warm yellow lighting that created a welcoming atmosphere. Only a few customers dotted the tables at this early hour. Gentle jazz played softly in the background, punctuated now and then by the clink of silverware against porcelain. Carl idly flipped through the menu, waiting for the meal he¡¯d already ordered.


    Through the glass, he could see a fountain square across the street, haloed by the evening sun. Passersby stretched long shadows across the pavement, like silhouettes moving through a living canvas. In the distance, the church bells tolled, their gentle notes lingering in the damp air.


    Just then, the restaurant door opened, the chime of a small brass bell announcing a newcomer. Carl¡¯s heart skipped a beat¡ªit was that elderly gentleman who claimed to be an antiques dealer. He wore the same immaculate black overcoat and an elegant suit beneath it, topped with a bowler hat. The familiar ebony cane in his hand tapped lightly on the floorboards as he approached, the sound hinting at some unspoken signal.


    A subtle fear washed over Carl once more. So recently, he¡¯d encountered Thomas Yamia¡¯s disturbing gaze at the construction site; now he faced another presence just as unsettling. Despite his polite demeanor, there was something dangerous about him. If Thomas was a prowling beast, this man was equally dangerous, but in a far more elegant, inscrutable way.


    Carl forced himself to remain calm and offered a polite nod. ¡°Good evening.¡±


    The old gentleman said nothing, strolling directly to Carl¡¯s table. His polished shoes made steady, measured sounds on the wooden floor.


    ¡°May we talk?¡± Carl gestured to the chair beside him, scraping it softly against the floor. The old gentleman sat down with effortless grace. A blonde waitress approached in clicking heels, her voice cheerful against the quiet hum of the restaurant¡¯s jazz.


    ¡°Would you like to order something, sir?¡± she asked, offering him a menu.


    ¡°Black pepper steak, medium-rare,¡± the old gentleman said. ¡°With fries and steamed vegetables. Black pepper sauce on the side. And a glass of red wine, please.¡±


    ¡°Any starter, sir?¡±


    ¡°No, thank you.¡±


    ¡°Dessert?¡±


    ¡°No, that won¡¯t be necessary.¡±


    As the waitress turned away, Carl spoke up: ¡°Excuse me. If the kitchen hasn¡¯t started my order yet, could you change it to the same as this gentleman¡¯s?¡±


    The waitress nodded, heading back toward the kitchen, her footsteps diminishing into the background.


    ¡°Well, this is quite a coincidence,¡± Carl said, forcing a conversational tone. ¡°I didn¡¯t expect to see you here.¡±


    He focused on the old gentleman¡¯s eyes¡ªclear, sky-blue eyes as calm and deep as the first time they met.


    The old gentleman remained silent, his gaze drifting slowly around the restaurant¡¯s interior.


    ¡°This place has good taste,¡± Carl continued, filling the silence. ¡°The d¨¦cor, those impressionist prints on the walls¡ªone of them is a piece by Yass, his final work before his death. The original¡¯s still at the Wexley Art Gallery. The lighting, the wallpaper¡­it all evokes a kind of nostalgic charm, like an old private club from another era.¡±


    Still, the old gentleman said nothing. He merely let his eyes roam quietly, betraying no reaction to Carl¡¯s attempt at conversation

 chapter5: Trapped

    "There are a few interesting finds," the old gentleman said at last, his voice cultured yet warm, like a baritone from a distant past. He sat straight-backed, cane leaning by his side, and spoke as if selecting each word from a velvet-lined box. "On Neukman Street, there''s an antique shop with an exquisite wall clock. It''s about three centuries old, from the Black Forest region. Oak frame, carved oak leaves, a copper pendulum. Yes, it''s a bit worn, but still remarkably well-preserved."


    He paused, eyes flicking upward as if replaying the memory. "In that same shop, there''s a pair of enamel-painted vases from the Loong Emperor period. The glaze is pristine, and the pastel hues are layered so delicately you''d think the peony petals might flutter off in a breeze. Unfortunately, one vase has a hairline crack near the neck, so fine it almost escapes notice."


    He tapped the floor gently with the tip of his cane, as if weighing his next words. "What intrigues me most is a landscape painting by Gordon van Michel, crafted over four centuries ago. It shows a soft, dusky countryside¡ªrolling hills fading into the horizon, a wheat field catching the last golden light, a few oak trees holding court in the foreground. The colors are bright but never garish, and the brushstrokes feel almost like a whisper. You can sense the stillness of that rural twilight."


    "It sounds extraordinary," Carl said, nodding, his voice lower now as if out of respect. "Quiet scenes like that always calm me down. You''ve been running around the city all day. How do you feel?"


    The old gentleman sighed, setting his cane aside. "Lansnat''s weather is miserable. Sunshine in the morning, then rain pounding the rooftops all afternoon. Leads isn''t like that¡ªit''s got a warm, steady sun most of the year."


    Carl shifted in his chair. "Leads does have more predictable weather. And the industries there¡ªminerals, wine¡ªeverything just feels more... refined, I suppose. Lansnat can''t really compete."


    The old gentleman shrugged, a subtle lift of a well-tailored shoulder. "Speaking of wine," Carl ventured, trying to read the old man''s face, "What''s your go-to drink? A martini, perhaps?"


    A soft light kindled in the old gentleman''s eyes. "Yes, a dry martini," he said, voice nearly purring. "I prefer it with just the right ratio of gin to vermouth, a strip of lemon peel. First, the juniper''s crisp bite hits your tongue, then that mellow sweetness from the vermouth, and finally the citrus lifts it all up. Each sip feels like dancing a quiet waltz."


    Carl tried not to smile too broadly. He had rarely seen the old gentleman''s guard slip like this. "You know," Carl said, "Lansnat might be short on world-class wine, but it''s got antiques aplenty. Largest auction house around, oldest library, and a museum that could keep you busy for weeks. Have you visited yet?"


    "Not yet," the old gentleman said softly, gaze drifting to the window. Outside, dusk settled like a worn velvet blanket, and a distant church bell rang, its bronze surface gleaming in the fading light. "I should find time."


    Carl leaned forward, making his voice casual. "So... anything strange happen today? Or about last night at the bar¡ªanything come back to you?"


    The old gentleman didn''t answer right away. He tapped lightly on the table, fingers long and elegant, each tap keeping time with the distant bell. Carl followed his gaze. The church bell trembled atop the old steeple, ringing a note that felt like a question with no answer.


    "We''re all trapped," the old gentleman said, voice dropping to a hush that barely rose above the bell''s toll. "None of us can truly break free. Not the living. Not the dead."


    Before Carl could probe this strange remark, the sharp click of heels announced the waitress''s arrival. She placed two plates of steaming steak before them, and as she left, the jazz piped through the speakers slid quietly into a melancholic piano solo. Something in the air shifted¡ªan unsettled calm, as if the restaurant had just exhaled.


    Carl took his first bite of steak, savoring the juice and warmth, trying to ignore the weight in the old man''s words. "It''s cooked perfectly," Carl said, forcing some cheer into his voice. "The doneness is just right."


    He watched the old gentleman cut his steak¡ªeach movement precise, each slice so smooth it felt choreographed. It reminded Carl of old clubs where tutors taught table manners to future lords and ladies.


    "What do you think?" Carl asked, trying to sound easygoing.


    "The seasoning''s on point," the old gentleman said thoughtfully, taking a measured bite. "The black pepper''s subtle enough to let the beef shine. Still, a hint of red wine sauce would layer the flavors nicely. In some of the older places in Leads, they use aged wine, a few choice spices, and a sprig of rosemary to create something really special..."


    He spoke with the certainty of a seasoned food critic, and Carl couldn''t help but picture him strolling through candlelit halls and aged cellars, tasting, judging, committing it all to memory.


    They chatted about cuisine for a while¡ªfine reds from Leads, Lytro''s pungent cheeses, Kainyu''s delicate afternoon teas, Brevesll''s signature stone-grilled dishes. But Carl hadn''t forgotten the old gentleman''s cryptic statement. After a lull, Carl steered back to it. "You mentioned we''re all trapped..."


    The old gentleman set down his utensils and dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "May I tell you a story?" he asked quietly. Suddenly, the restaurant lights seemed to dim, the piano notes lowering to a murmur.


    Carl nodded, feeling a faint unease.


    "Long ago," the old gentleman began, voice as smooth as a distant cello, "they say this world was governed by a supreme cat¡ªa ruler none had truly seen, called WhitBlock." He paused, letting the name hang like a half-spoken spell. "Its loyal watchers were everywhere, maintaining a balance beyond our understanding, preventing chaos from ripping reality apart."


    Carl felt his heart clench unexpectedly as an image surfaced: that dead cat he''d found behind the bar, its body rigid and cold in the alley''s half-light.


    "But not everyone accepted WhitBlock''s rule," the old gentleman went on, fingers circling his wineglass. "One day, a fierce Tiger tore through from beyond. This Tiger... it was something else entirely. It brought terror and ruin. We were small, helpless. It didn''t just threaten us¡ªit made us face our own insignificance."


    Outside, the twilight deepened, the streets below lit by the orange glow of gas lamps. The old gentleman''s voice resonated in the hush of the half-empty restaurant, each word scraping at the edges of some buried truth.Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    "The Tiger gave all creatures three days: submit or be destroyed. Everyone responded differently¡ªsome swore loyalty, others plotted rebellion, some fled, some just waited for the end. Some believed the world was too vast to control, that the Tiger''s threat was hollow." His voice dropped even lower. "But they underestimated its power."


    Carl leaned forward, heart thudding, reminded of the cat''s lifeless eyes and of Thomas''s unsettling, tiger-like stare.


    "On the fourth day, the Tiger''s forces wiped out an entire city. At dusk, just before moving on, a cat appeared. Some say it was WhitBlock, others say just a lieutenant of that hidden king. Whichever it was, it stood before the Tiger''s horde..."


    The old gentleman let his voice trail off, stood up, and tossed his napkin onto the table. Carl stared, stunned. "What happened then?" he pressed, as if afraid the story would fade away.


    The old gentleman settled the bill at the counter with impeccable grace. Turning, he gave Carl a long, meaningful look. "Let''s just say the war between the cat and the tiger was never about heroes and villains. The sheep always pay the highest price. Some things, Detective, are better left in the shadows."


    With that, he pushed open the door and vanished into the twilight. Carl watched the fading silhouette, questions churning in his mind, a dark suspicion unfurling like smoke. For a moment, the piano music fell silent. Only the quiet clink of cutlery remained, clear and unnerving in the hush.


    ---


    The next morning, sunlight sliced through the blinds in the police conference room, striping the long table and the tired faces gathered around it. The chief droned through routine updates, his voice grave and steady. Then a soft knock broke the stillness.


    "Come in," the chief said, glancing at the door.


    An officer stepped inside, head bowed with quiet respect. "Chief, the victims'' families have arrived. They traveled from Leads and Anyru, waiting in the reception room."


    The chief''s eyebrows knit for an instant. "Jones," he said, turning to a woman near him, "head to the reception. Brown, you go too."


    Carl spoke up, voice subdued but clear. "Chief, I''d like to join them."


    The chief studied Carl''s face, then nodded. "Fine. All three of you, go."


    They stepped into the corridor, their footsteps muffled on the polished floor. Carl''s shoulders felt tight. The families'' pain was always the hardest to face.


    In the family reception room, a comforting lamp glowed over beige sofas. Soft landscape paintings lined the walls, trying to lend some warmth to a room meant for sorrow. Daisy''s parents and Dasco''s mother sat hunched slightly forward. The parents wore simple clothes that smelled faintly of fields and open air. Dasco''s mother, dressed in a modest teacher''s outfit, tried to hold herself together with trembling dignity. Their eyes were rimmed red, sleepless and swollen.


    Daisy''s mother clutched a photograph of her daughter performing on stage, Daisy''s smile suspended forever in that bright, happy moment. Her father hovered protectively at her side. Dasco''s mother fiddled nervously with her phone, eyes downcast.


    Jones approached them first, her voice quiet and gentle. "I''m so sorry for your loss. We know how difficult this is. We have some questions... if at any point you need a break, just say the word."


    Brown took a seat, notebook in hand, managing to be both professional and kind. "When was the last time you heard from them?" he asked softly.


    Daisy''s mother rubbed her tired eyes. "Tuesday night," she said, voice cracking. "She told us she''d be at the library. Finals were coming... she promised to help out on the farm once they were done." Her fingers tightened on the photograph.


    Daisy''s father''s eyes shone with tears he struggled to hold back. Dasco''s mother spoke next, voice wavering: "My boy messaged me that same day. He was busy with a new column for the school paper. Told me not to worry, that he was fine." She showed them the text: a normal conversation, heartbreakingly ordinary.


    Carl stood to the side, the weight of their grief pressing into his chest. He forced himself to breathe evenly.


    "We need to know about their daily routines," Jones said, carefully, "their social circles, activities. Anything might help us understand."


    Daisy''s father cleared his throat, voice catching. "Daisy loved the drama club. She felt alive on that stage." He held up his phone¡ªa photo of Daisy in costume, spotlights catching her proud grin.


    "Dasco wrote reviews for the drama club," Dasco''s mother added quietly. "They got close there. He told me Daisy''s performances sparked his creativity." Her voice cracked, but she fought the tears.


    Brown jotted notes, nodding. "Any other clubs or interests?"


    "Daisy took dance classes, joined a modern art association. She wanted to explore all kinds of art." Daisy''s mother''s voice broke then, and Jones pressed a tissue into her trembling hand.


    Carl noticed Dasco''s mother''s hesitation. Jones offered a small, encouraging nod. "Please," she said softly, "anything could help."


    Dasco''s mother sighed, voice low. "My son talked about taking more part-time jobs. He complained about how expensive the city was. I told him to focus on school, but he insisted..." She stopped, voice thick with regret. Jones gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.


    Carl''s thoughts drifted back to the strange 5000 transaction in Daisy''s account. Before he could ask, he spotted movement outside the window. Three young men huddled in the corridor''s shadows, trying too hard to blend in.


    "Excuse me," Carl said, keeping his voice neutral. He slipped out, careful not to disturb the families.


    In the hallway, he strolled as if he had nowhere urgent to be, but his eyes were locked on the trio. They wore baseball caps pulled low¡ªYankees logos standing out. One was lanky and jittery, sweat beading at his temple. When they saw Carl, they bolted.


    Carl swore under his breath. "Stop!" he shouted, chasing after them. Their footsteps thundered down the corridor, splitting off in different directions. Carl picked the pair heading for the back door. He radioed for backup, weaving through an archive room thick with dust and stale paper. The building''s old stairwell rattled under their frantic flight.


    Bursting outside, Carl squinted as autumn sun struck his eyes. The back lot was empty and still, just a few parked cars and a fence. The two guys were trapped, scanning for an escape. The third tried scrambling over the chain-link fence, boots scraping metal.


    Carl jumped into a patrol car, wheeled it around with a screech, and cut off their path. Jumping out, badge flashing, he barked, "Don''t move!"


    They froze, faces pale as if doused in cold water. Backup arrived in seconds, hauling down the one on the fence.


    Up close, Carl saw their youth¡ªbarely out of their teens. The one with glasses stared at the ground, the lanky one kept trembling, and the older guy in work pants pressed his lips tight.


    Carl''s voice was stern. "Who are you? Why were you lurking near that room?"


    The one with glasses sneered, eyes bright with spite. "Daisy got what was coming to her," he spat, voice bitter. "Everyone thinks she was so innocent¡ª"


    "Shut your mouth!" The lanky one lunged, rage and pain twisting his face. Carl held him back, a hand firm on his shoulder.


    "Knock it off!" Carl said, tightening his grip, voice rising. "We don''t have time for this. You''re all involved somehow, so start talking."


    The glasses-wearing one lifted his chin defiantly. "Oh, come on. She played him, and he¡ª"


    "I said shut it!" the lanky one nearly sobbed. Tears shimmered in his eyes, anger and regret mixing like oil and water.


    Carl''s blood pounded in his ears. "Look, calm down. We need facts, not your personal grudges."


    The older one, the one who called himself Chris, spoke softly: "Officer, name''s Chris. I work at a nearby garage. The other two¡ªAlanx and Marcus¡ªthey''re from Duville College."


    Carl recalled the bartender''s words: these three had been at Le Petit Caf¨¦ before the incident. "You were at Le Petit Caf¨¦ two nights ago, right?"


    Marcus¡ªthe one with glasses¡ªgave a curt nod. "A detective named Smith asked us questions before," he said, voice dripping sarcasm. "Didn''t realize we''d get the full interrogation now."


    Carl narrowed his eyes. "Then why come snooping around the station today? Got something new to share or just looking to stir trouble?" His heart was hammering, and he could feel that something darker lay just behind their evasions.


    The autumn air pressed against them, crisp and carrying the scent of dry leaves. In that silence, Carl felt all the loose ends tightening around them, like invisible threads waiting to snap.

 Chapter6: Voices in the Dark

    The three men exchanged a look. Chris paused, just a beat. "Yeah, we''ve got some new info. Hoping it''ll move things along with the investigation."


    Marcus nudged Alanx gently. "Look, just spit it out. Easier for everyone if you do."


    Alanx sucked in a breath, lifting his chin, but you could see the struggle in his eyes, the raw pain there.


    "Daisy... she was my girlfriend," he managed, his voice a little rough around the edges. "We met in the baseball club; she was on the team too."


    Carl nodded, a slight tilt of his head, urging him to go on.


    "Things were good at first. We''d hit up games together, practice together, you know?" Alanx recalled, a wry twist to his lips.


    "Then Dasco muscled in," Marcus cut in, a definite edge in his tone. "He was always around Daisy, pretending to interview her. He writes for the school paper, and he''s in the drama club, the snake."


    "Daisy started pulling away," Alanx''s voice dropped, almost a whisper. "Quit baseball, said she wanted to focus on drama, dancing."


    Carl listened, picking up on the hurt radiating off Alanx .


    "She and Dasco became inseparable," Marcus scoffed. "But then we found out it wasn''t just him."


    "What do you mean?" Carl''s brow furrowed.


    Chris hesitated again. "We found out Daisy was hooking up with some... older guys. They were seen going into that hotel near school."


    A name flashed in Carl''s mind: Shimura Yu. His gaze hardened. "Do you know Shimura Yu?"


    "Yeah, works at Wilson Construction," Chris confirmed. "Always at Le Petit Caf¨¦, sits in the corner by himself, doesn''t talk much."


    "I saw him with Daisy on Monday," Alanx chimed in, his voice a bit shaky. "They were definitely arguing. Shimura looked really stressed, kept saying sorry."


    "What did you hear?" Carl pressed.


    "He said to Daisy, ''I''m a little short on cash right now, but I''ll get you the money ASAP,''" Alanx recalled. "Daisy looked furious, shook her head, and just walked away."


    The pieces were starting to click for Carl. The 5000 in Daisy''s account, Shimura''s shifty behavior ¨C the connections were forming.


    He yanked out his phone and dialed the director. "Director, we need to get eyes on Shimura Yu, open an investigation. Probably need a warrant too."


    Pocketing his phone, Carl looked at the three men, his tone less sharp now. "Thanks for the heads-up. This is big for the investigation."


    Alanx just nodded, his voice rough. "Just hope we get to the truth."


    Carl clapped him on the shoulder. "We''ll do our damnedest."


    A heavy blanket of dark clouds smothered the city, like some giant fist was slowly closing around it. Shimura Yu stood in the elevator of his office building, watching the numbers climb, a knot of anxiety twisting in his stomach.


    Half an hour ago, the bubbly receptionist had called, all sweetness and light. "Mr. Shimura, the police are on the phone. They need to ask you a few more questions. Could you pop down as soon as you get a chance?"


    He''d nodded, feeling like a puppet on strings, tidying his desk. His hands were jittery as he straightened the files, a couple of key documents slipping and flopping onto the floor. Bending to retrieve them, he noticed the sorry state of his shoes ¨C the leather cracked and begging for polish.


    "This time..." He checked his watch: 11:27 am. Not even lunchtime, and his colleagues were still glued to their screens. They pretended to be engrossed, but Shimura felt their eyes on him, those quick, furtive glances. Ever since the cops had questioned him yesterday, he''d become the office pariah, whispers dogging his every step.


    "Hey, uh, Minister, gotta take a sick day," he mumbled, handing over his leave slip with a slight bow. The flimsy paper felt clammy in his hand.


    "Yeah, whatever," the minister grunted, not even looking up, just slapping the stamp down haphazardly. Shimura noticed it was crooked, just like his own mood.


    Stepping out of the building, the autumn wind smacked him, carrying a gritty film of dust. He instinctively clutched his briefcase, the worn leather a small comfort.


    He flagged down a cab. "Police Station," he croaked, the words coming out hoarse. The driver''s eyes flicked to him in the rearview mirror, a look that made Shimura squirm. He hunched down, pretending to smooth nonexistent wrinkles from his suit ¨C the same black suit he''d been wearing for five years, the cuffs frayed, but he couldn''t bring himself to replace it.


    The city blurred past the windows, and Shimura''s mind bounced between the past and the present.


    "Kill them," a voice hissed in his head, a seductive whisper. Shimura jolted, nearly yelping. That voice, that goddamn voice, had been his constant companion since he''d seen that.


    "Shut up! Just shut up!" he raged silently, his fingernails digging crescents into his palms. The driver gave him another look in the mirror, this time with open suspicion.


    At a red light, Shimura suddenly barked, "Let me out here!" even though the station was still a couple of blocks away. He fumbled with his wallet, paid the fare, and stood on the curb, watching the taxi melt into the traffic. He needed a minute, needed to get his head straight.


    The dark clouds pressed down, the air thick and heavy. He tilted his head back, staring at the oppressive sky, the sun swallowed by the gloom. It felt like a mirror of his own life ¨C once bright, now swallowed by the darkness.


    "Ugh, I just want to die," he murmured, the words as light as a falling leaf.


    The police station loomed ahead, the gray building like a silent predator waiting for its prey. His stomach churned, bile rising in his throat. He doubled over, retching on the sidewalk, but nothing came up. The instant coffee from this morning churned sourly in his gut.


    "Kill them..." The voice was back, clearer, more insistent now.


    Shimura hugged his briefcase tighter, as if it were a lifeline. His legs felt like lead weights, each step a struggle.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    Passersby hurried past the disheveled man, averting their eyes. No one wanted to linger on his misery. But Shimura was oblivious, lost in his own head. His awareness was fading, his soul feeling detached, watching his body trudge towards the station entrance.


    The steps leading up to the station weren''t high, but to Shimura, they felt like scaling a mountain. His worn shoes scraped against the concrete, a harsh, grating sound. Sweat dripped from his forehead, tracing lines down his glasses and onto the ground.


    "Sir, can I help you?" A female officer at the front desk looked up, a hint of concern in her voice.


    "I... I''m Shimura Yu. I got a call... they need to ask me more questions," he stammered, his voice trembling like a leaf in a gale.


    The officer flipped through a logbook and nodded. "Have a seat. I''ll let the officer in charge know you''re here."


    A few people were scattered on the bench in the waiting area. Shimura picked the furthest corner, trying to shrink into himself. He clutched his briefcase, the air conditioning blowing on his damp shirt, sending shivers down his spine.


    "Kill them..." The voice echoed again, insistent.


    Shimura squeezed his eyes shut, trying to slow his racing heart. But each breath felt like sucking in ice water, his lungs burning. He thought back to how this had all started.


    Memories flickered like a broken film reel. That night, peering through his telescope at the apartment across the way. Then he''d seen something he shouldn''t have. A hand clamped around a woman''s throat, lifting her into the air. The images were seared into his brain, impossible to forget.


    "Mr. Shimura?" A deep voice cut through his thoughts.


    He looked up to see a tall, young cop standing there. "Kim" read the name tag.


    "Come with me, please," Kim said, his tone neutral, but there was an undercurrent there.


    The interrogation room. The words hammered in Shimura''s skull. Not an interrogation, just more questions, he told himself. But as he followed Kim down the long hallway, the voice returned, louder than ever: "Kill them, kill them, kill them..."


    The voice was a relentless drumbeat in his mind. Shimura''s fingers were locked around the handle of his briefcase, the leather creaking under the pressure.


    His vision swam, the fluorescent lights of the corridor blurring into distorted shapes.


    Kim opened a door. A small room. A table. Two chairs. The clock on the wall blinked 12:15, but time felt like it had stopped dead.


    "Have a seat," Kim gestured to one of the chairs.


    Shimura sat down stiffly, the briefcase heavy on his lap. He could feel his pulse thumping, loud enough for the whole damn station to hear.


    After Kim left, the silence in the interrogation room was thick enough to choke on. Shimura''s heart hammered against his ribs, sweat beading on his forehead. His grip on the briefcase was a white-knuckle affair.


    Then the door swung open again. A burly, middle-aged man walked in, sharp black suit, tie perfectly straight. His face was all sharp angles and his eyes... they just bored right through you. His footsteps echoed in the small space, each one a punch to Shimura''s gut.


    The man moved with a smooth, practiced ease and sat down across from Shimura. A ghost of a smile touched the corner of his mouth. "Mr. Shimura. We meet again."


    Shimura''s head snapped up, startled. "You... Officer Carl. Hello," he managed, his voice a shaky whisper, trying to mask the fear churning inside him.


    Carl''s gaze was intense, like a hawk sizing up its prey. "You have a good memory, Mr. Shimura."


    "Well... we only met yesterday," Shimura mumbled, keeping his head down, avoiding Carl''s piercing stare. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of the briefcase, his nails digging into the worn leather.


    "So, you know why you''re come here?" Carl leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, his voice low and steady, but with an unmistakable pressure.


    Shimura shook his head, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead, a droplet tracing a path down his temple.


    Carl''s smile widened, but it didn''t reach his eyes. "It''s about the murder. Daisy''s case." His voice dropped, each word hitting Shimura like a stone. "We found out that a few days before she was killed, 5000 was deposited into her account."


    The words hit Shimura like a sledgehammer, knocking the air out of his lungs. His breath hitched, his chest tight. Blood roared in his ears, his palms slick with cold sweat.


    "Care to explain that, Mr. Shimura?" Carl''s eyes were sharp, the hint of a predator''s smile playing on his lips.


    "I... I don''t know anything about that," Shimura stammered, his voice barely audible, the panic rising in his throat. He wouldn''t meet Carl''s gaze.


    Carl sighed softly, a touch of what sounded like disappointment in his tone. "Mr. Shimura, I''d strongly advise you to be straight with us. Digging yourself a deeper hole isn''t going to help."


    Shimura started to tremble. He bit his lip, shaking his head again, a frantic denial. "I swear, I don''t know."


    Carl picked up the phone on the table and punched in a number. "Kim? Bring in the evidence."


    A moment later, Kim returned, carrying a large, clear evidence bag. It gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, the contents visible: a pair of high-powered binoculars, a silver laptop, a stack of cassette tapes with dates scrawled on them, a small digital camera, and a tiny pinhole camera.


    The color drained from Shimura''s face, leaving him ashen. His eyes were fixated on the bag, his pupils shrinking, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His grip on the briefcase tightened, his knuckles bone-white.


    "These look familiar, Mr. Shimura?" Carl''s voice was hard now, his gaze unwavering, watching Shimura''s reaction like a hawk.


    Shimura''s throat was constricted, his voice a dry rasp. "Those are... mine."


    Carl nodded, his tone flat. "Since they''re yours, maybe you can tell us what you use them for?"


    Shimura''s body started to shake uncontrollably, his eyes darting around the room, anywhere but at Carl. "I... I just..."


    Carl pointed to the laptop. "Shall we take a look at what''s on here?"


    The question seemed to trigger something in Shimura. His body convulsed, and a small, glinting knife clattered onto the floor. Kim reacted instantly, lunging forward and tackling Shimura to the ground, while Carl moved to assist, expertly snapping handcuffs onto Shimura''s wrists.


    Carl''s knee pressed into Shimura''s back. "Shimura Yu, you''re under arrest for obstruction of justice and illegal possession of a weapon."


    "Officer, I have an alibi!" Shimura shouted, desperation lacing his voice. "I was home that night, I can prove it!"


    Carl and Kim exchanged a glance. "And that would be?"


    Shimura swallowed hard, shame contorting his face. "That night... I was watching the woman in apartment 5-3-3... through my telescope. She was... showering." His voice dropped to a near whisper.


    The interrogation room fell silent. Disgust flickered across Carl''s face. "Go on."


    "And... I also... I used a pinhole camera to record the blonde woman downstairs and a man... you know... doing things." Shimura couldn''t meet their eyes.


    "So, where does that put you during the murder?" Carl pressed, his voice cold.


    "Around 1:50 AM, I''d just gotten back from a bar," Shimura mumbled, defeated.


    "Go check his apartment," Carl instructed Kim, his tone leaving no room for argument.


    Back at Richi Apartments, Carl had Kim call for the black-haired tenant from 5-3-3 and the blonde neighbor downstairs. The scene that unfolded was pure chaos.


    "Pervert!" the black-haired woman shrieked, her face contorted with fury. "You disgusting pig!"


    The blonde neighbor was trembling with rage. "Oh god, I can''t believe I''ve been living right above a creep like you!" She spun on her heel and fled, looking like she wanted to scrub herself clean.


    Word spread like wildfire through the building. Tenants crowded the stairwells, peering down at Shimura, their faces etched with anger and disgust. A few spat at him as they passed, others muttered curses under their breath.


    "Shimura!"Mrs. Maggie stormed down the stairs, her face a mask of fury. "I had no idea! Renting to scum like you! You''re out of here tomorrow, no, you''re out today!"


    Back at the station, the evidence stacked up. Security footage from a nearby bar confirmed Shimura''s late-night return. Reluctantly, Carl and Kim confirmed his alibi.


    "Always thought that weirdo was just shy, couldn''t look you in the eye. Guess I was wrong," the blonde tenant muttered, her voice still laced with anger.


    "Officer, as much as I wish that creep would rot in hell, I did see his lights on around two in the morning the night before last," a neighbor offered, her disgust palpable.


    As Carl left the apartment building, the blonde girl''s sneer and the black-haired girl''s raw fury were still vivid in his mind.


    Kim, clearly unimpressed, muttered, "Lucky bastard. Cameras just happened to be working when he needed them to."


    Carl just nodded grimly. "These guys will get what''s coming to them. But we''ve got bigger problems right now."


    Later, Shimura sat alone in the dimly lit room. The setting sun cast long, distorted shadows across the floor. His eyes were vacant, his face blank.


    The voice echoed in his head, sharp and insistent: "Kill them, kill them..."


    Shimura clutched his head, a strangled cry escaping his lips. "Stop it! Make it stop!"


    But the voice grew louder, consuming his thoughts. His lips began to move, a low murmur escaping his throat. "Kill them... kill them..."


    His eyes widened, a chilling smile spreading across his face.


    Watching the blurred figures moving outside the window, Shimura''s voice was a low, chilling whisper: "Kill them... kill them..."

 chapter7：Times Pendulum

    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 ¨C 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 ¨C 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 ¨C 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 ¨C nothing linking her death to anyone on her lists. Same goes for Dasco.¡±


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    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 ¨C 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 ¨C 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 ¨C 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¡± caf¨¦ 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 caf¨¦ 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 ¨C 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 ¨C 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 ¨C 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 ¨C 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 ¨C 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 ¨C 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 caf¨¦.

 chapter8：Tiger Shadow

    It was half past one in the afternoon, and Le Petit Caf¨¦ bar was heaving. Soft jazz drifted through the air, mingling with the crisp clink of glasses. The rich aroma of whisky and cigars wafted about the room. From a corner, hushed laughter echoed, making the afternoon feel particularly drawn out.


    He made his way towards the bar, where Devin was mixing drinks.


    Noticing Carl, Devin¡¯s movements visibly faltered for a moment, the shaker wobbling slightly in his hand. Carl saw his knuckles were going a bit white, clearly from the strain.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on with your face?¡± Carl examined the bruises around Devin¡¯s eyes and mouth.


    ¡°Had a bit of a tumble,¡± Devin replied, head bowed, avoiding eye contact. His fingers fiddled unconsciously with the bar tools, the metal chinking softly.


    ¡°A pint of dark, please.¡±


    As Devin pulled the pint, his actions were steady, but Carl sensed the tension beneath the surface. He took a sip of his beer, tapping the side of his glass lightly. ¡°What¡¯s your connection to Thomas  Yamia? Has he been in recently?¡±


    Devin¡¯s movements stiffened, his right hand trembling slightly. Bottles and glasses clinked together, making a crisp sound. ¡°We¡¯re mates. He¡¯s been in three times of late.¡± His voice was soft, like he was trying hard to keep it together.


    ¡°Specific times?¡± Carl¡¯s doubts deepened.


    Devin grabbed a tea towel and mechanically wiped down a glass that was already clean. ¡°Around twenty past nine on Monday, half ten on Wednesday, and the same times yesterday and Wednesday.¡±


    ¡°What time did he leave?¡±


    ¡°Oh, a bit past one in the morning.¡± Devin handed a cocktail to another punter. ¡°Between quarter past and twenty past, can¡¯t quite recall.¡± As he spoke, his gaze flicked towards the wine cellar before quickly looking away.


    A sudden burst of laughter went up in the bar, breaking the silence between them. Carl noticed Devin¡¯s shoulders relax a touch.


    ¡°There are rumours your relationship is a bit out of the ordinary.¡±


    Devin¡¯s hand froze mid-air, the bar spoon trembling slightly. After a moment¡¯s silence, his eyes seemed to lose their light. ¡°We were together, once.¡±


    ¡°Once?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, once.¡± Devin lowered his head, rearranging the bottles as if to avoid the subject.


    ¡°Why did you split up?¡±


    ¡°Personality clash.¡± His voice was barely audible.


    ¡°Is Thomas a bit hot-headed?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, he¡¯s got no patience for much.¡± Devin subconsciously touched the marks on his face, then realised and quickly put his hand down.


    Carl stared at the bruises. ¡°Was he responsible for these?¡±


    ¡°No, it was an accident.¡± Devin shook his head, never meeting Carl¡¯s gaze. His fingers tapped gently on the edge of the bar, the rhythm giving away his unease.


    ¡°Do you know where he is now?¡±


    ¡°Probably at the Wilson¡¯s building site. That¡¯s where he works.¡± Devin¡¯s tone suddenly flattened.


    ¡°Does he have digs in town?¡±


    ¡°At 13 Tracy Road.¡±


    A distant sound of breaking glass reached their ears, and a few punters started to complain. Devin turned away, looking almost relieved, to sort out the commotion, but Carl had already seen the fear flash in his eyes.


    Carl stood up to leave and stopped a waiter at the door, handing over a business card. ¡°If anything untoward happens at the bar, give me a shout straight away.¡±


    Devin watched Carl¡¯s departing figure and let out a breath. He glanced towards the wine cellar, now silent and still. His hand paused mid-cleaning, a feeling of unease settling in his gut.


    A police car went past a few streets, navigating a busy junction before finally pulling up outside the Wilson¡¯s building site. At the gate, Old Bob was sitting in the security hut.


    Spotting Carl, he immediately stood up, all enthusiasm. ¡°It¡¯s you again, officer.¡±


    ¡°Is Thomas Yamia here?¡±


    ¡°That bloke¡¯s got the day off.¡± Old Bob grinned, showing a few yellow teeth. ¡°Probably gone off causing trouble again last night.¡±


    He suddenly lowered his voice. ¡°Everything I told the other lot is true. Thomas is a murderer. That couple in Nightdew Gardens¡ªhe definitely did them in. And there¡¯s more victims than just them.¡± Old Bob¡¯s eyes gleamed with a touch of fanaticism. ¡°He¡¯s not human. He¡¯s a monster who¡¯s done a deal with a demon from hell.¡±


    ¡°Did you see him kill anyone yourself?¡± Carl frowned.


    ¡°That fella¡¯s a demon in human skin!¡± Old Bob exclaimed, his face going a bit red with agitation. ¡°No matter how well he hides it, his true colours will come out in the end.¡±


    Carl thought of Thomas¡¯s eyes and couldn¡¯t help but shiver.


    In the oak-panelled corridor of Oak Apartments at 13 Tracy Road, a musty smell hung in the air. The wallpaper was peeling, revealing mottled water stains. The lift had been out of service for ages, with a yellowed ¡°Out of Order¡± sign stuck to the iron gates.


    Carl pressed the doorbell of flat 304. There was no answer. He pressed it a few more times before an impatient voice came through. ¡°Who is it?¡±


    ¡°Is this Thomas Yamia¡¯s? It¡¯s Inspector Carl. We met the other day.¡±


    ¡°Something the matter?¡± Thomas¡¯s tone was lazy.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got some information regarding the case that needs discussing.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m busy right now. Don¡¯t have the time.¡±


    Carl sighed. ¡°Someone¡¯s reported that you killed that couple. I¡¯d appreciate your cooperation with the investigation.¡±


    ¡°Was it that old geezer Bob who reported it?¡±


    ¡°He can¡¯t be named for the informant¡¯s safety.¡±


    ¡°That old sod just likes to spout nonsense.¡± Thomas muttered as he opened the door.


    The man standing there still had striking silver hair and a fierce look in his eyes. But Carl noticed his left arm and chest were done up in bandages.


    ¡°Got any questions you need to ask?¡± Thomas said coldly.


    Carl scrutinised the bandages on Thomas¡¯s arm. ¡°Are you injured?¡±


    ¡°Accident at work.¡± Thomas leaned against the door frame. ¡°That¡¯s not what you¡¯re here for, is it?¡±


    ¡°You left the bar a bit past one in the morning, and the CCTV in the back alley suddenly packed it in.¡± Carl watched Thomas¡¯s expression. ¡°Also, a dead cat was found there.¡±


    Thomas¡¯s expression stiffened noticeably but quickly returned to normal. He shrugged. ¡°What¡¯s a dodgy CCTV system got to do with me? As for the dead cat, isn¡¯t it normal for strays to die in the city?¡±


    ¡°Where did you go after leaving the bar?¡±


    Thomas hesitated for a moment. ¡°Went back to the building site, then I popped in to see Devin.¡±


    Carl recalled forensic officer Howard¡¯s words¡ªthe crime scene might not be Nightdew Gardens, and the time of the crime might not necessarily be between two and three in the morning. ¡°Perhaps there¡¯s more than one perpetrator,¡± the thought flashed through his mind, making Thomas even more dodgy.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    ¡°You two aren¡¯t together anymore?¡± Carl quickly changed tack.


    Thomas sneered. ¡°Emotions are a funny thing. Sometimes it¡¯s hard to cut things off clean.¡± He paused. ¡°Anyway, I was with Devin the whole time that night. He¡¯ll vouch for me.¡±


    ¡°What if Devin¡¯s timeline doesn¡¯t tally with yours?¡± Thomas narrowed his eyes.


    Carl didn¡¯t respond but instead asked, ¡°Your injuries¡ªare they really from work?¡±


    ¡°Officer,¡± Thomas¡¯s tone suddenly turned menacing, ¡°if you¡¯ve got no other questions, I suggest you be on your way. After all, without a search warrant, our chat ends here.¡±


    Carl looked into Thomas¡¯s eyes. ¡°Alright, for now. But I might need another word with you.¡±


    Thomas gave a cold smile and slammed the door shut with a bang.


    Carl stood in the corridor, staring at the closed door, his doubts only growing. He knew this case was far from over.


    Days passed, and the clues became more obscure. A month later, at Lansnet Central nick, the case still hadn¡¯t moved forward.


    The conference room was thick with smoke, the air heavy with the smell of cheap coffee and fatigue.


    The blinds were half-drawn, and the afternoon light streamed through the gaps, casting striped shadows across the table, like silent sighs.


    Carl stood in a corner, his fingers unconsciously rubbing his holster¡ªa nervous habit.


    His gaze drifted between three nearly full whiteboards: the first was a relationship map, with red lines criss-crossing to connect all the suspects, the photo of the slain couple pinned at the centre, the corners yellowed as if silently condemning the case¡¯s prolonged stagnation;


    The second board recorded the timeline, with key moments marked by specific times, but several crucial periods were followed by prominent red question marks, like unhealed wounds;


    The third was a map of locations, with Le Petit Caf¨¦ bar highlighted, surrounded by dense notes almost spilling over the edges.


    Chief Sam rubbed his temples, a fresh forensic report spread out in front of him. His eyes were bloodshot, clearly showing he hadn¡¯t had a proper kip for some time. ¡°Have we figured out why the CCTV went on the blink?¡± His voice carried undeniable fatigue and a hint of barely concealed agitation.


    ¡°The tech department still haven''t got anywhere,¡± Alexander put down his now cold coffee, the bottom of the cup leaving a dark ring on the documents.


    ¡°After all this time, still no leads.¡± Chief Sam¡¯s fist slammed heavily onto the table, the coffee cup wobbling precariously. Everyone exchanged uneasy glances, the atmosphere seeming to thicken.


    ¡°What happened with the night shift that night?¡± The chief¡¯s fingers impatiently tapped the table, the rhythm frantic, like a countdown.


    ¡°Sudden outbreak of the squits,¡±  Alexander sighed, his brows furrowed. ¡°Happened too quickly, and there was no one available to cover. Honestly, the excuse sounds like a load of old cobblers.¡± His tone carried a hint of suspicion.


    The conference room fell into a suffocating silence. Two press conferences had yielded nothing, the reward money increased from five grand to twenty grand, but only resulted in useless tips. Carl looked at the 36th report on the table¡ªanother contradictory statement. He could feel the pressure mounting like an invisible net.


    ¡°They¡¯re already putting the squeeze on.¡± Chief Sam stood by the window, the sunlight casting a soft halo on his silver hair, making his expression even more gloomy. ¡°If we don¡¯t make a breakthrough in the next few days, the commissioner will be sticking his oar in.¡± His tone held a trace of reluctance; as an old copper, he knew exactly what that meant.


    Just then, the conference room door was abruptly shoved open, the noise startling everyone, and a few coffee cups wobbled in their hands.


    ¡°Guv!¡± A young officer burst in, panting, his tie askew, beads of sweat glistening under the light. ¡°There¡¯s been an incident at Le Petit Caf¨¦ bar! One of the staff¡­¡±


    Chief Sam¡¯s sharp gaze swept to Alexander, who then looked to Carl. The three exchanged a brief glance, conveying a silent understanding. Carl immediately stood up and headed to the waiting room, his leather shoes clicking steadily on the floor as he pressed the emergency action button. The nick¡¯s alarm blared, signalling the onset of the sudden crisis.


    In the waiting room, Dani was sitting restlessly, her hands tightly clasped, knuckles white. Seeing Carl enter, she immediately stood, her face as white as a sheet. ¡°Guv, there¡¯s been an incident at the bar.¡±


    He poured her a glass of water, the surface trembling slightly, reflecting the stark overhead lights. He turned to the plainclothes officer standing beside her. ¡°What¡¯s the situation?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m one of the officers keeping an eye on Devin,¡± the plainclothes officer lowered his voice, his eyes vigilantly scanning the surroundings. ¡°There might be a homicide at the bar, and other colleagues are chasing the suspect. Miss Dani insists on seeing you.¡±


    Carl checked his phone and saw multiple missed calls, each one like a silent alarm bell.


    ¡°Let¡¯s have a word while we walk.¡± Carl motioned for both to follow, swiftly moving towards the underground car park, his heels clicking a rapid rhythm on the ground.


    ¡°Since you came to investigate, I¡¯ve been keeping an eye out for anything odd at the bar,¡± Dani followed Carl, her voice trembling as if each word was a struggle. ¡°Devin¡¯s been acting strangely of late, always going down to the wine cellar at midnight¡­¡±


    ¡°When exactly did you notice this?¡± Carl¡¯s tone became more serious, his gaze sharp.


    ¡°Around twenty to nine this morning. I went to tidy the wine cellar early, and as I got to the entrance, I heard a right barney going on.¡± She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. ¡°It was Devin and Thomas having a go at each other. Thomas was shouting, ¡®You¡¯re mental,¡¯ followed by the sound of a wine rack collapsing. Then¡­¡± She paused, a flicker of fear in her eyes. ¡°Thomas came legging it out, covered in claret.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure it was Thomas?¡± Carl started the patrol car, the engine¡¯s roar echoing in the confined space.


    ¡°I¡¯ve worked there for three years, I¡¯m not going to mistake him. And¡­¡± She swallowed hard, her voice barely audible. ¡°After Thomas left, I heard Devin crying, really cut up. I looked in the wine cellar and saw him holding something wrapped in a tea towel¡­ like a baby.¡±


    ¡°A baby?¡± Carl¡¯s grip tightened on the steering wheel, an ominous feeling creeping into his mind.


    A police cordon had already been set up outside Le Petit Caf¨¦, with several officers moving the onlookers along. Carl flashed his warrant card and quickly made his way to the wine cellar, the air thick with an eerie presence, like a silent warning.


    Inside the wine cellar, the strong smell of booze mixed with the scent of blood and a faint, decaying odour that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Under emergency lighting, the toppled wine racks and broken bottles cast eerie shadows on the floor. Devin was slumped against the wall, his bloodstains half-dried, staring blankly ahead. A police negotiator was trying to talk to him, but it was no good.


    Carl nodded to the negotiator to step back and slowly crouched beside Devin. ¡°Do you remember me? I¡¯m Carl. We¡¯ve had a chat before.¡± His voice remained as calm as possible, trying to cut through Devin¡¯s fear.


    Devin mechanically turned his head, a flicker of confusion in his eyes, but stayed silent.


    ¡°Can you give it to me?¡± Carl pointed to the package in Devin¡¯s arms, noticing the dark red stains spreading on the tea towel.


    Devin suddenly clutched it tighter. ¡°He killed her!¡± His voice wavered, sounding unnatural. ¡°He did it!¡±


    ¡°Was it Thomas?¡± Carl raised his voice slightly, trying to bring Devin back to reality.


    Devin shook his head desperately, curling up tighter.


    ¡°Devin,¡± Dani arrived beside him, her voice unusually calm. ¡°Let the Sergeant help us, alright?¡±


    With Dani¡¯s gentle persuasion, Devin finally loosened his grip. Carl took the package and carefully peeled back a corner. His stomach lurched¡ªit was a dead cat, its green eyes wide open, like it was accusing someone. Most disturbing was its body, twisted like a cloth that had been wrung out, the bones clearly broken.


    The way it had died¡­ Carl immediately thought of the dead cat found in the alley a few days back, the manner of death identical.


    ¡°Guv.¡± A forensic officer handed him an evidence bag containing a bloodied dagger. Carl examined the blade¡¯s curve and length¡ª12 centimetres, part of the edge serrated, the blade well-polished. This matched the forensic report¡¯s description of the murder weapon perfectly.


    ¡°What else have you found at the scene?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re doing a thorough search.¡± The forensic officer was about to continue when another officer hurried in.


    ¡°Guv, we¡¯ve found Thomas¡¯s car in the back alley.¡± The officer¡¯s expression was peculiar. ¡°But¡­ there¡¯s something odd.¡±


    Carl followed the officer to the back alley. Thomas¡¯s car was parked in the shadows, but to everyone¡¯s surprise, over a dozen stray cats were neatly occupying the roof and bonnet. Several officers tried to shoo them away, but it was no use.


    The most striking was a large ginger tom. It stood on the car roof, its nose twitching, as if it sensed something. Suddenly, it turned its head and stared down at Carl from above. The gaze sent a shiver down his spine¡ªhe felt like those eyes were telling him, ¡°This has nowt to do with you, don¡¯t get involved.¡±


    Soon, the group of cats began to move in unison towards a certain direction. The ginger tom glanced back at Carl, its superior air making him feel for a moment like he was facing not a cat, but some higher being.


    By the time the cats had disappeared around the corner, Carl realised his hand was still on his weapon. He took a deep breath, trying to quell the inexplicable unease. Night had quietly fallen, and the streetlights cast a dim glow, marking an eerie end to the unsettling scene.


    ¡°Right, let¡¯s have a look at this.¡± Carl turned to the forensic team, his voice tinged with fatigue.


    The police officers switched on their torches, the beams cutting through the car windows and scanning the dark interior. The night was oppressive, and the air carried a faint sense of unease, as if the group of cats had left behind an invisible pressure.


    The officers meticulously searched Thomas¡¯s car, their torches cutting through the gloom within. The night was heavy, and the air carried a slight sense of unease.


    ¡°This car¡¯s brand new,¡± Forensic Officer Louis frowned, speaking softly. ¡°There¡¯s no sign it¡¯s been used, like it¡¯s just come straight out of the showroom.¡±


    Carl stood aside, feeling more confused than ever. A fugitive driving a pristine, unused vehicle? He had a feeling this was more complicated than it looked on the surface.


    Just then, hurried footsteps echoed from the distance. The officer from the pursuit team stumbled in, his face as white as a ghost, his clothes covered in blood.


    ¡°Thomas¡­ he¡¯s got away!¡± He gasped, his voice filled with terror and anger. ¡°Jack and Mark¡­ he¡¯s done them both in¡­¡±


    A chill ran down Carl¡¯s spine. He clenched his fists, trying to keep calm. ¡°Issue a city-wide warrant immediately, deploy all available units, and widen the search area!¡± His voice was exceptionally clear in the silent night, echoing down the deserted streets.


    They headed quickly to Thomas¡¯s flat¡ª13 Tracy Road, Flat 3. Bashing the door in, Carl noticed straight away the signs of repeated lock changes, the lock mechanism looking unusually new.


    ¡°Who¡¯s he trying to keep out?¡± Carl wondered.


    In the bedroom, an old-fashioned box against the wall caught his eye. The box was engraved with intricate patterns, looking like it contained some ancient symbols. Opening it revealed a collection of finely crafted antiques, each with a bit of history about it.


    ¡°Bag it all up and take it back to the nick,¡± Carl ordered, but his gaze lingered on the antiques. He had a nagging feeling that these items had a bit of a dark aura about them, like they were hiding unspeakable secrets.


    Two days later, in the police station¡¯s conference room, the atmosphere was thick enough to cut with a knife. Outside the window, dark clouds hung low, raindrops gently tapping against the glass, like a bad omen.


    ¡°These antiques belong to Andrew Michel,¡± Forensic Officer Howard pushed up his glasses, looking serious. The projector¡¯s light reflected on his pale face. ¡°They¡¯re from Leads Town.¡±


    Hearing those two names, Carl¡¯s heart sank. Michel, Leads Town¡ªmemories of the antique dealer flashed in his mind, Michel¡ªthat dodgy family from Leads Town.


    Before he could get his head around that, ¡°DNA analysis shows,¡± Howard continued, ¡°as well as Thomas and Andrew Michel, there¡¯s a third person¡¯s DNA.¡±


    ¡°A third person?¡± Carl frowned. ¡°These antiques, which are four or five hundred years old, have only been handled by three people? That doesn¡¯t add up.¡±


    Howard nodded, a hint of worry in his eyes. ¡°What¡¯s more, the murder weapon, the dagger, not only has this mystery third person¡¯s DNA on it, but it also matches Thomas, Devin, and the victims¡¯.¡±


    The conference room went quiet, everyone looking grave and thoughtful. Chief Sam suddenly slammed his fist on the table, his voice echoing through the room.


    ¡°The case is clear! Thomas is the murderer. Full pursuit!¡± Chief Sam¡¯s voice boomed through the conference room, trying to drown out any doubts with his firm stance.


    However, Carl felt a sense of resistance building up inside him. Years on the force had taught him to be wary of things that looked too simple. The rain outside got heavier, seeming to echo his unease. He slowly stood up, his gaze steady and sharp, like he was trying to see through a fog.


    ¡°Guv,¡± his voice was calm but firm, ¡°I reckon we need to dig a bit deeper.¡± He paused, his eyes scanning everyone present. ¡°Too many things don¡¯t add up: why the CCTV went down, the odd deaths of those cats, Thomas¡¯s dodgy motives. There¡¯s something bigger going on here, I can feel it.¡±


    The conference room fell silent, with only the sound of raindrops against the window getting louder. Just as the atmosphere reached its peak, the conference room door was suddenly shoved open. An officer stumbled in, white as a ghost, clutching a file that was shaking in his hand.


    ¡°Guv! We¡¯ve cracked the code on Daisy¡¯s notebook!¡± He unfolded the paper, showing a snarling tiger¡¯s head design surrounded by complicated markings.


    ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± Carl looked at  Alexander, a question in his eyes.


    The most experienced inspector in the precinct hesitated for a moment, sighed, and then said slowly. ¡°That¡¯s the emblem of the Tiger Shadow!¡±


    ¡°The same mark was on the bottom of the box in Thomas¡¯s flat,¡± the reporting officer added.


    ¡°Tiger Shadow ¡­¡± Carl repeated softly, a chill running through him. The stories the old gentleman had told him about cats and tigers swirled in his mind¡ªthe ginger tom¡¯s superior look when it left, Thomas¡¯s sharp, tiger-like eyes. It all seemed to be pointing towards something unspeakable. The air in the conference room felt like it had turned solid, even the rain outside sounding unnaturally clear.


    Alexander slowly got to his feet, his weathered face showing a worry Carl had never seen before. His fingers tapped the table unconsciously, like he was brewing up some important words. Finally, he took a deep breath and glanced at everyone there.


    ¡°Right, listen up,¡± his voice was low and serious, ¡°things are probably more complicated than we thought.¡±


    ¡°Do we need to get counter-terrorism involved?¡± A senior officer couldn¡¯t help but ask.


    Alexander shook his head, his voice calm but firm.


    ¡°Not yet. We can¡¯t act rashly and risk them knowing we¡¯re on to them. The Tiger Shadow  is a seriously dangerous outfit. They¡¯re believers in ancient prophecies and are trying some sort of ritual to unleash something nasty.¡±


    Carl noticed the inspector¡¯s hands were trembling slightly, a fear he¡¯d never seen before flickering in his eyes. He felt a surge of unease, like a massive shadow was looming over them.


    ¡°Armed response are on standby,¡± the duty officer reported, ¡°the special ops team is ready to go. We¡¯ve got roadblocks across the city and increased patrols in key areas.¡±


    ¡°What about the officer watching DevIn?¡±  Alexander asked.


    ¡°He¡¯s¡­ not doing too good, Guv,¡± Gold replied, ¡°either curled up in a corner like a scared rabbit or keeps saying, ¡®He killed her,¡¯ can¡¯t get a proper word out of him.¡±


    Carl felt an invisible weight pressing down on him. He walked over to the whiteboard, pointing at the clues. His tone was firm.


    ¡°Right, listen everyone, we can¡¯t ignore all this dodgy stuff. I¡¯m suggesting we form a special investigation team to get to the bottom of the Tiger Shadow¡¯s background and what they¡¯re up to.¡±


    ¡°Enough!¡± Chief Sam suddenly interrupted, his voice full of suppressed anger. ¡°The case is clear. Thomas is the murderer. Our job is to bring him to justice as quick as we can!¡±


    Carl was taken aback. He¡¯d never seen the Guv so worked up, practically losing it. What was even more unsettling was seeing a hint of proper fear in both the Chief¡¯s and  Alexander¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°This case,¡± Chief Sam stood up, his gaze stern, ¡°ends here. Everyone follows orders and doesn¡¯t go off on their own chasing other leads.¡±


    The atmosphere in the conference room was heavy and oppressive. Carl gazed out the window, the rain hammering against the glass, blurring the city outside. It felt like a massive shadow was coming closer, swallowing up all their hope.