Night and day held no meaning in this room.
The walls of the cramped, dilapidated apartment looked like the chaotic blueprint of a madman’s mind. Hundreds of photographs clung to the plaster like dead leaves. Among them were decade-old murder cases, bloated corpses mutated beyond recognition, and bizarre, blood-smeared symbols. There were also shadowy, humanoid silhouettes whose faces were blurred, as if the camera itself had recoiled from capturing their likeness.
Every picture was connected to another by thick, jagged lines of a red marker.
In some places, dates were hastily scribbled. In others, aggressive question marks were carved into the paper. But at the dead center of this madness hung a single photograph.
It was an image of an ancient, black metal bangle.
Directly beneath it, two words were scrawled in bold, bleeding red ink:
"DON'T TOUCH."
The suffocating silence of the room was suddenly shattered by the shrill, mechanical wail of a phone alarm.
Ring... Ring... Ring...
On the messy bed, a slender young man shifted, rolling over with a heavy groan. Strands of messy black hair fell across his face. The dark, sunken hollows beneath his eyes made it painfully obvious that sleep had been a stranger to him for days.
Without opening his eyes, he blindly reached out and grabbed his phone. His thumb swiped across the screen three times, hitting empty air, before finally silencing the alarm on the fourth try.
"...Is it morning already?" he muttered, his voice raspy and thick with exhaustion.
For a few hollow seconds, he stared blankly at the cracked ceiling. Then, with an absolute lack of energy, he dragged himself out of bed.
No brushing.
No breakfast.
No morning tea.
He moved like a ghost, sitting directly in front of his computer.
Beep.
The monitor flared to life, casting a cold, blue glow over his face. A game immediately loaded onto the screen. In the next instant, his fingers began flying across the keyboard and mouse with such blinding, fluid speed that they became a blur.
For the first time, a spark of life returned to his pale face. His eyes lit up with a sharp, feral focus.
It was as if the hollow shell of a man who had just dragged himself out of bed wasn’t the real Aiden Cross at all. The real Aiden only truly woke up when he entered the digital screen.
Hours bled into one another.
Finally, a bright banner flashed across the screen:
VICTORY
A faint, tired smile tugged at the corner of Aiden's lips.
"At least... I don't lose here," he whispered.
As the adrenaline began to fade, his eyes drifted to a small white plastic pill bottle sitting at the edge of his desk. He picked it up and gave it a light shake.
Nothing. It was completely empty.
His expression instantly hardened, the warmth draining from his face.
"...Did it really have to run out today?"
He let out a heavy, ragged sigh, staring at the empty container for a long moment. Then, grabbing his worn jacket, he bolted out of the apartment.
Outside, the air was biting and cold.
The street was choked with a crowd far larger than usual, the chaotic hum of voices filling the air. People were rushing in a single direction, their faces tight with morbid curiosity. Several police cruisers lined the curb, their red and blue emergency lights painting the brick buildings in rhythmic, pulsing flashes.
Aiden’s steps faltered. His breath hitched in his throat.
He forced his gaze toward the center of the commotion. The police had cordoned off a nearby apartment building, the bright yellow crime-scene tape fluttering violently in the wind.
Spectators whispered to one another in hushed, hurried tones.
"I heard she was a college student..."
"They're saying she died sometime last night..."
"But no one heard a thing. Not a single scream."
The color drained from Aiden’s face. Slipping away from the crowd without drawing attention to himself, he ducked behind the corner of an adjacent building. From this vantage point, he had a clear, unobstructed view of the crime scene.
His eyes scanned the area with mounting panic.
Just then, a tall, well-built young man stepped out of the building's entrance. He had sharp black hair, a crisp, immaculate police uniform, and piercing brown eyes that carried an air of seasoned experience, despite the exhaustion etched into his features.
The nameplate pinned to his chest read:
Detective Ethan Carter
Ethan was the youngest investigator in the city’s Major Crimes Unit, but today, his movements were heavy. In his hand, he held a transparent plastic evidence bag.
The moment Aiden’s eyes locked onto the object inside that bag, his pupils dilated into pinpricks.
"...No..." the word slipped from his trembling lips.
Inside the bag lay a heavy, ancient black metal bangle. Dried, dark blood was caked into the intricate, foreign symbols engraved across its surface.
Aiden’s hands began to shake uncontrollably.
"How... how did it get here...?"
On the other side of the tape, Detective Ethan Carter turned to his partner, his voice commanding and grave. "Get this to the forensics lab immediately."
"Yes, sir."
"Make sure they don't miss a single fingerprint. I want a full sweep of the surface."
"Understood, Detective."
Aiden’s throat went bone-dry. He clenched his hands into tight fists, a primal terror taking root in his chest. It wasn't the horror of a brutal murder that terrified him—it was the reemergence of that ancient, black metal bangle.
For a few agonizing seconds, he stood frozen. Then, spinning on his heel, he began to walk away with frantic, hurried steps.
He had ventured out to get his medication, but the pills were entirely forgotten now. A singular, terrifying question echoed in his mind like a siren:
If that bangle is back... it means...
He couldn't even bring himself to finish the thought. His fast walk quickly disintegrated into a desperate run.
9:30 PM
Westbridge City Forensic Center
The sterile facility was unsettlingly quiet.
At the center of the brightly lit post-mortem room, the lifeless body of Emily Ross lay on a cold steel table, illuminated by the harsh, white fluorescent lights. An oppressive gravity hung over everyone in the room.
Dr. Samuel Hayes, the Chief Medical Examiner, adjusted his latex gloves and took a slow, measured step toward the slab.
Standing right beside him was Detective Ethan Carter.
Ethan had stood over dozens of bodies throughout his career. Yet, the moment he had crossed the threshold into this autopsy room tonight, an inexplicable, cold dread had settled deep in his gut.
With a steady hand, Dr. Hayes pulled back the white sheet.
Emily’s face was remarkably peaceful, looking as though she had merely fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep. If one were to examine her porcelain skin, they would never believe that her life had been violently stolen.
Because on her entire body, there was not a single scratch.
