"Where's my gray tie?"

The shout echoed from the walk-in closet, breaking the morning silence in the penthouse on the thirtieth floor of Skyline Residence.

Kalandra emerged with his white shirt only half-buttoned, his face disheveled, and an aura around him as if ready to explode anyone who dared to pass by.

He snatched a pile of suits from the sofa in the living room, throwing them again because that wasn't what he was looking for. "Zoya! Are you even listening to me?"

At the dining table made of imported black marble, Zoya Ravendra sat calmly. No panic, no hurried movements.

The woman only sipped her black coffee slowly, her eyes fixed on the screen of the latest TabTech series that displayed rows of dense text. Her hair was casually bunched up with a cheap plastic clip, a stark contrast to the luxury of the apartment they lived in.

"It's on the hanger near the door, Kalandra. Auntie Sumi prepared it last night," Zoya replied without turning her head, her voice flat, almost emotionless. Her finger swiped across the tablet screen, her eyes moving quickly reading line after line of articles—which, in Kalandra's eyes, were probably just celebrity gossip or online shopping catalogs.

Kalandra turned towards the door. Sure enough. The tie hung sweetly there. He snorted roughly, feeling stupid but too proud to admit it.

With a rough movement, he grabbed the tie and wrapped it around his neck.

"What kind of wife are you?" Kalandra walked closer to the dining table, pulling the chair across from Zoya roughly until the chair leg screeched against the floor.

He put on his black watch while staring at his wife with a sharp gaze. "Husband's about to leave for work, instead of helping, you're busy playing with gadgets. No breakfast, no small talk."

Zoya finally lifted her face. Her gaze was empty, like a calm pool of water untouched by the wind. "There's bread in the jar. Coffee in the machine. Auntie Sumi is shopping at the market."

"Auntie Sumi, Auntie Sumi all the time!" Kalandra slammed the table gently, enough to make the spoon on the small plate clink. "I married you, not the maid. At least pretend to care a little. People out there think I'm lucky to get the only daughter of the Ravendra family. They don't know that at home, I'm like living with an ice statue."

Zoya put down her coffee cup slowly. The sound of ceramics against marble sounded so clear amidst their tension. "What do you want me to do, Kalandra? Put on your tie? You have hands, don't you? Cook fried rice? You said my cooking is bland. So I keep quiet so I don't keep making mistakes."

The answer was so logical, so calm, and that's exactly what made Kalandra's blood boil. He hated Zoya's calmness. He hated how his wife seemed to have no passion for life, no ambition.

Kalandra stood up, straightening his suit roughly. He looked at Zoya with an undisguised, condescending look.

"It must be nice to be you, Zoya," Kalandra sneered, his voice low but sharp. "Wake up late, laze around, just spend your parents' inheritance. You have no burdens. No need to think hard. Just be a pretty decoration in this luxurious house."

He brought his face a little closer. "Sometimes I wonder, what's in your brain besides shopping and sleeping? It's such a waste that a medical graduate ends up just being an elite unemployed."

Silence for a moment. That sentence should have been painful. Any wife would cry or throw a glass if she were said that way. But Zoya? She only blinked once.

"Be careful on the road, Kalandra," Zoya said.

Brief. Concise. Without the slightest hint of offense.

She returned to staring at her tablet screen, as if Kalandra was no longer there.

Kalandra growled under his breath. It felt like punching cotton. No resistance, no satisfaction.

"Tch. Such a burden," Kalandra muttered as he turned around and strode towards the main door. He slammed the penthouse door shut, leaving Zoya still calmly sipping the rest of her coffee.

Inside the elevator that took him down to the basement, Kalandra massaged his throbbing temples.

This marriage is crazy. For two years he had been trapped in a ridiculous arranged marriage to smooth out his family's business and his father's political connections.

He, the feared Head of Criminal Investigation Unit who was feared by bandits in the city, had to go home to a house that felt like a morgue because of his wife who was no more alive than a corpse herself.

His black SUV sped through the morning traffic of the city. A small siren was turned on occasionally to break through the traffic density.

Kalandra's mind was still stuck at the dining table earlier. Zoya's blank face really disturbed his concentration.

As soon as his car turned sharply into the courtyard of Metro City District Police Headquarters, Kalandra's mood immediately changed mode.

He was no longer an annoyed husband, he was Commander Kalandra Dirgantara. The bloodhound.

He slammed the car door shut, walking quickly across the lobby. Several officers saluted, but he only nodded briefly.

His steps were steady towards the special elevator. However, just as the elevator doors opened on the criminal division floor, a young man in a field vest ran breathlessly towards him.

It was Raka, his trusted subordinate who was usually relaxed, but this time his face was pale.

"Commander! It's an emergency, Sir!"

Kalandra didn't stop walking, he continued towards his room while taking off his suit jacket. "Catch your breath first, Ka. Don't be like someone chased by a demon first thing in the morning. What is it? Another robbery case at Grand Mall?"

"No, Sir. This is much worse." Raka matched his pace, offering a work tablet with trembling hands.

Kalandra stopped suddenly in front of his room door. He looked at Raka, his eyebrows sharply furrowed. "Don't tell me..."

"The Puppeteer, Sir," Raka interrupted quickly, his voice choked. "A woman's body was just found in an old warehouse at the district seven port. The condition... is exactly the same. Her body position is arranged like a dancing doll, and there is a red thread tied to her wrist."

Kalandra's blood rushed. That case.

The nightmare that had kept his team from sleeping soundly for six months. A genius serial killer who was always one step ahead, who played with the police like children.

"Prepare the team. We're leaving now!" Kalandra ordered, the annoyance at his wife earlier this morning immediately disappeared, replaced by the adrenaline of a hunter who smelled blood. "Don't let the forensic team touch anything before I get there. This time, that bastard can't get away."

Kalandra grabbed his car keys again, turning back to run back to the elevator, unaware that this case would force him to drag along the "burden" he had left at the dining table that morning.

"Back off! Everyone back off! Don't anyone step over the yellow line, or I'll throw you all in a cell tonight!"

Kalandra's shout broke through the noise in Warehouse Number 4 of Tanjung Harapan Port. The atmosphere there was damp, with the smell of seawater mixed with the aroma of old iron rust.

Flashes of camera lights from the documentation team darted around, illuminating a dark corner where a stiff body sat perched on an old shipping container.

It was a terrifying yet beautiful sight—a hallmark of "The Puppeteer."

The victim was a young woman, her red dress hanging neatly. Both her hands were tied up with transparent fishing line, as if she were a marionette doll dancing.

Her face was made up, her lips smiling, but her eyes stared blankly at the leaking warehouse ceiling.

Kalandra burst in, breathless. "Rudi! What's the situation? Don't tell me you didn't find anything again."

Doctor Rudi, a middle-aged man with thick glasses who had been squatting near the body for an hour, looked up. His face was desperate. He roughly removed his latex gloves.

"Nothing, Chief. Absolutely nothing," Rudi complained, shaking his head. "No stab wounds, no strangulation marks on the neck, no signs of struggle. This girl just... died like that. Her heart stopped suddenly."

"Don't mess with me, Rud!" Kalandra snapped. He put his hands on his hips, staring at the corpse in frustration. "There's no way a young, healthy person just drops dead while being dressed up like a circus clown. Check again! Poison? Injections?"

"I've checked her entire skin surface, Kalan! Not a single needle mark. As clean as a newly washed plate." Rudi stood up, patting Kalandra's shoulder gently. "I have to take her to the lab for a full autopsy, but I'm pessimistic. This Puppeteer... he's a ghost. He doesn't leave any DNA traces, fingerprints, or even a cause of death."

Kalandra kicked an old tire lying nearby. "Damn it! Three bodies in two months, and we're still spinning our wheels. The media will tear us apart tomorrow morning."

Kalandra moved away from the forensic team, needing some fresh air. His head was spinning. He leaned against a concrete pillar of the warehouse, reaching into his pants pocket for a cigarette, but remembered he had quit smoking for the police health program last month.

"Chief? Have a drink."

A paper coffee cup from the Star-Mart minimarket was extended to him. Kalandra turned. Sinta, a young policewoman from the administrative division who somehow managed to be at the crime scene, smiled sweetly. Her lipstick was a little too red for a murder situation, and her uniform seemed deliberately tailored at the waist.

"Thanks, Sin. I need some caffeine to keep from going crazy," Kalandra muttered, taking the coffee and immediately gulping it down even though it was still hot.

Sinta didn't move. She stood next to Kalandra, joining him in staring at the forensic team with a contrived look of concern. "Commander looks very pale. You haven't had breakfast yet, have you? And it's already this late."

"Usual. In a hurry," Kalandra replied briefly.

"Oh, that's a shame," Sinta began her attack, lowering her voice as if they were sharing a secret.

"But Commander has a wife at home. Surely Mrs. Zoya prepared something? If I were Commander's wife, I wouldn't let my husband work hard on an empty stomach. Especially since Commander's job is life-threatening."

Kalandra was silent. Sinta's words, although they sounded like concern, were actually pouring gasoline on the fire of his resentment towards Zoya.

The image of his wife's blank face from that morning reappeared. 'There's bread in the jar,' Zoya had said. What kind of wife was that?

"She... has her own things to do," Kalandra replied diplomatically, even though his heart was annoyed.

"What's she busy with, Chief?" Sinta probed again, this time flipping her short hair. "As far as the office staff knows, Mrs. Zoya just stays at home. It's nice, her life is relaxed. Not like us who have to chase criminals in the heat. Commander is too kind, you know. A great man like Commander should have a supportive partner, someone to exchange ideas about cases with, not someone who's just a burden."

Those words hit home. Burden. The same word Kalandra had shouted that morning. Sinta was right. Zoya was indeed useless.

Before Kalandra could respond, the phone in his jacket pocket vibrated longly. The name "DAD" was displayed on the screen. Kalandra sighed heavily. His father—a former General who was tougher than steel—was calling during work hours. This was not a good sign.

"Hello, Dad. Kalan's at a crime scene, there's a body—"

"Come home now." The baritone voice on the other end cut him off mercilessly.

Kalandra held the phone away from his ear, staring at the screen in disbelief. "Dad, this is The Puppeteer case. Kalan can't leave the team. The body was just foun—"

"I don't want to hear any excuses!" his father snapped. "Tonight there's a big family dinner at the main house. Your father-in-law, Mr. Ravendra, is also coming. Your wife is already on her way there. Don't embarrass the family by arriving late or not at all. Do you want to make Zoya look like a neglected wife?"

Kalandra's jaw tightened. Zoya again.

"Dad, but this is an emergency..."

"Your position is a privilege, Kalandra. But family is absolute. You must be there in an hour. Period."

The phone connection was cut off unilaterally.

Kalandra squeezed his phone until his knuckles turned white. His breath was ragged. In front of him was an unsolved corpse, behind him was a team that needed direction, but he was being forced to go home just for a superficial dinner party.

And this was definitely Zoya's fault.

That woman must have complained to her parents that she was lonely, or complained to Kalandra's Dad. Zoya, who was silent and obedient, actually had a sly way of controlling his life through his parents.

"Damn it!" Kalandra cursed loudly, making Sinta jump in surprise.

He turned to look at Raka, who was recording evidence. "Raka! Take over command. Make sure the body is taken to the Police Hospital. I have to leave."

"Huh? But Chief, what about this..."

"Just follow my orders!" Kalandra snapped. He walked quickly away from the crime scene, leaving behind a dead-end case for the sake of a disgusting domestic charade. In his heart, his hatred for Zoya rose another level. That wife was truly a bringer of bad luck.

"Cover it with the tarp! Don't let the rain damage the corpse again! Can you guys even do your jobs properly?"

Kalandra's shout was drowned out by the sound of thunder splitting the night sky. Heavy rain poured down on Tanjung Harapan Port relentlessly, as if the universe was conspiring to erase the killer's tracks.

Kalandra stood under the makeshift tent, soaked to the bone, his hair plastered to his head, and his eyes burning red with anger.

He had finally returned here. To hell with the family dinner. To hell with his father's threats, who had called him ten times. Kalandra had turned his car around in the middle of the toll road to return to the corpse of this woman in red.

He couldn't enjoy a good meal while there was a victim demanding justice in the middle of a storm like this.

"Chief, it's pointless!" Doctor Rudi shouted, trying to overcome the sound of the rain. He had given up, sitting limply on a wooden crate. "The rain is too heavy. The chemical residue in the soil must have been washed away. We won't find anything tonight. Let's call it a night, Chief!"

"Easy for you to say, call it a night!" Kalandra grabbed Rudi's collar, almost throwing a punch in frustration. "If we go home, that bastard wins! Use your brain, Rud! There must be something we missed!"

"WOI! STOP!"

Raka's shout diverted their attention. From the direction of the port gate, the blinding white headlights cut through the darkness.

A luxurious black sedan—not a service car, but the kind of European car that costs as much as a year's police budget—sped in, hitting puddles and splashing everywhere.

The car didn't slow down even when Raka and two other officers waved their hands.

Screech!

The car tires screeched on the wet asphalt, stopping exactly three meters from the police line, almost hitting the patrol car.

"Crazy! Who is that?" Sinta, who was sheltering in the security post, immediately ran out, shielding her head with a plastic map. "Hey! Are you blind? Can't you see there's a police line?"

Kalandra released his grip on Rudi's collar. His hand reflexively reached for the gun on his waist. "Code one! Maybe this is the perpetrator's accomplice trying to get rid of evidence!"

All guns were pointed at the driver's door of the black sedan. The atmosphere was tense. Only the sound of rain hitting the car roof could be heard.

The driver's door opened slowly.

Kalandra narrowed his eyes, ready to shoot if there was any suspicious movement. However, what came out was not a masked man or an armed thug.

First, a slender, smooth white leg descended and stepped onto the muddy asphalt.

All eyes widened. The leg was not wearing military boots, let alone running shoes. The leg was clad in furry pink pastel-colored house slippers that were soaked in mud.

A woman got out of the car. She was wearing a long silk nightgown, the bottom of which was immediately soiled by water splashes, covered by an expensive brown trench coat that was clearly not meant to be worn in the rain at a shabby port.

Her hair was wet, sticking to her pale cheeks.

"Zoya?" Kalandra lowered his gun, his mouth agape in disbelief. "What are you doing here?"

Zoya didn't answer. She closed her car door with a gentle but firm push. Her face was blank, as blank as it had been at the dining table that morning. She walked straight through the rain, past the dumbfounded Raka, towards the tent where the body was.

"Hey, hey! Wait a minute!" Sinta immediately blocked Zoya's path. The policewoman stretched out her arms, her eyes looking cynically at Zoya's 'mismatched' appearance.

"Who does this woman think she is, just barging in?" Sinta snapped, her voice shrill. "This is a crime scene, ma'am! Not a socialite gathering place! Look at your slippers, they're ruining the footprints on the ground! Go home, don't interfere with police work!"

Sinta turned to Kalandra, seeking support. "Chief, this is his wife, right? Tell her to go home. She's just making a mess. We're already stressed, and she's asking us to play house."

Zoya stopped right in front of Sinta. She looked at the policewoman from head to toe, then looked back ahead as if Sinta was just an unimportant lamppost.

"Move," Zoya said softly. Her voice was almost swallowed by the rain, but its coldness exceeded the night wind.

"Tch, why are you being rude?" Sinta became even more emotional. "I am an authorized officer—"

Without warning, Zoya bumped into Sinta's shoulder just like that, causing the policewoman to stagger to the side in shock. Zoya continued to walk, her steps strangely so stable even though she was wearing slippery slippers.

"Zoya! Go home!" Kalandra finally snapped out of his surprise and ran after his wife. His anger exploded again. "Are you crazy? Papa told me to go home, not for you to follow me here in your pajamas! Do you want to embarrass me in front of my men?"

Zoya arrived under the tent. She didn't look at Kalandra. Her eyes were locked straight on the corpse of the woman in red who was sitting stiffly on the crate.

"Zoya, I'm talking to you!" Kalandra grabbed his wife's arm roughly. "Are you even listening? This is not a playground. Go home or I'll drag you—"

Zoya's movement stopped. She reached into the pocket of her expensive coat.

Kalandra thought his wife was going to take out a handkerchief to cry, or a cell phone to call her father.

But no.

Zoya took out a pair of blue surgical latex gloves.

With quick and practiced—very practiced—movements, she put on the gloves.

Sret. Sret.

The sound of rubber being stretched taut was in stark contrast to the roar of the rain.

The woman's aura changed completely. The empty and dreamy look that Kalandra usually saw at home disappeared instantly, replaced by a sharp gaze as sharp as a razor that was dissecting a target.

Her shoulders were straight, her chin was lifted slightly.

Zoya brushed Kalandra's hand off her arm with a strong jerk. She stepped closer to the corpse, kneeling down without caring that her silk gown was submerged in a puddle of blood mixed with rainwater.

"Get your dirty hands off the victim's neck, Commander," Zoya's voice sounded clear, full of authority that made Kalandra's hair stand on end.

Kalandra gaped. "Huh?"

Zoya turned slightly, her gaze piercing Kalandra's eyes. "She was not strangled. There is cyanide residue between the fingernails of her ring finger, and this corpse's bruising was manipulated with dry ice."

Zoya pointed her index finger at the spotlight that one of the officers was holding, trembling.

"Move the light to the left. You're blocking the light," Zoya ordered coldly. "Let me show you what you've missed for the past six hours."