Episode 5

The digital beep of the electronic door lock sounded loud, followed by the mechanical sound of the lock opening. Kalandra pushed the penthouse door open with his shoulder, which felt heavy. He stepped inside, letting the raindrops from his coat stain the usually slick and shiny marble floor.

His mind was still at the harbor. The image of Zoya dissecting facts in the pouring rain, pointing out injection points that had escaped the eyes of the best forensic experts in the police force, kept replaying in his head like a broken cassette.

His wife's used latex glove was still clenched tightly in his right hand, already crumpled and warm from his body temperature.

The house was silent. There were no nagging parents, no crying, no drama.

Kalandra took off his shoes carelessly. He walked towards the living room, expecting his wife to be asleep or perhaps crying in the room because she had been scolded at the crime scene earlier. But, his sense of smell caught a very un-elite aroma for the size of this luxury penthouse.

The scent of seasoning powder. Chicken curry soup.

Kalandra quickened his pace to the TV room. There, on the Italian leather sofa worth hundreds of millions, Zoya sat cross-legged casually.

She had changed clothes, now wearing loose cotton pajamas with a small bear pattern. Her hair, which was wet earlier, had been dried and casually bunned.

Her right hand held a fork, feeding clumps of instant noodles into her mouth, while her eyes were glued to the large TV screen showing a cooking reality show.

Sluuurp.

The sound of slurping noodle soup was so contrasting with the chaos in Kalandra's brain. His wife—the woman who had just embarrassed a whole detective team—was eating instant noodles as if nothing had happened.

"You..." Kalandra's voice choked. He stood behind the sofa, still soaking wet.

Zoya didn't turn around. She chewed slowly, swallowed, then replied tonelessly, "Kalandra is home? Want some noodles? There's still one pack in the kitchen cabinet. Make it yourself, okay."

Kalandra couldn't believe it. He walked around, standing right in front of the TV, blocking Zoya's view.

"Move, Kalandra. Chef Juna is about to get angry," Zoya protested, tilting her head to the right, trying to peek at the screen.

"Turn off the TV!" Kalandra snapped. He grabbed the remote on the table and pressed the off button. The screen went dark instantly.

Zoya sighed deeply, putting her bowl of noodles on the table with a not-so-soft thud. She looked up, staring at her husband with a bored expression. "What is it now? Are you going to be angry about me going to the harbor? Or about me wearing house slippers outside?"

"Since when?" Kalandra leaned his body forward, staring sharply into his wife's eyes. "Since when did you understand forensics? Since when did you know about petechiae, cyanide, and corpse manipulation? That's not general knowledge you can get from watching Korean dramas!"

Zoya stared straight at Kalandra. There was no fear, no nervousness.

"We've been married for two years, Kalandra," Zoya replied calmly. "Have you ever once asked me what my degree is? Have you ever asked what I did before we were matched?"

Kalandra was silent, his tongue tied. He tried to remember. During the family introduction, he was too busy playing on his cell phone. On the first night, he immediately slept with his back to Zoya.

"You only know I'm the spoiled child of the Ravendra family," Zoya continued, her voice sharp and piercing even though the volume was low. "You assume I can only shop, go to the salon, and wait for money transfers. You never asked, so I never told."

"But the way you examined the body earlier..." Kalandra shook his head in disbelief. "That's not amateur level, Zoya. Even Doctor Rudi was trembling, but your hands were stable. You spoke as if the corpse was your old friend."

Zoya shrugged indifferently, taking her bowl of noodles again. "Maybe because corpses are better to talk to than your own husband. Corpses never interrupt people."

"Zoya!"

"I'm sleepy, Kalandra. Tomorrow I want to shop for a new bag, right? I'm a 'burden wife' who can only spend money," Zoya retorted pointedly. She got up from the sofa, taking her dirty bowl to the kitchen, leaving Kalandra standing stiffly with his ego shattered.

Kalandra rubbed his face roughly. His shame mixed with a burning curiosity. Who is this woman he married?

Why does it feel like he's been sleeping with a stranger for the last two years?

He heard the sound of the faucet in the kitchen, then Zoya's footsteps moving away towards her bedroom upstairs.

Kalandra needed answers. He couldn't sleep with a million questions in his head.

Slowly, Kalandra climbed the stairs. He intended to follow Zoya, forcing her to speak honestly.

His steps stopped in front of the corridor on the second floor.

The master bedroom is at the far right. But Zoya has a private room at the far left that is always locked tightly.

Zoya always said it was her "bag and shoe warehouse," a place of privacy where even the maid was forbidden to enter. Kalandra, who didn't care about fashion, never bothered to check.

But tonight was different.

The door to the "warehouse" room was slightly open. Maybe Zoya forgot to close it tightly when she took something earlier before going to the harbor. The gap was only as wide as a finger, but enough to peek through. Bright white light—too bright for a bedroom—shone from the gap.

Kalandra's heart was pounding. His detective instincts took over. He approached silently, holding his breath.

What's inside? A collection of Hermes bags? Louboutin shoes?

Kalandra pressed his eyes to the door crack.

His eyes widened.

There were no glass cabinets containing expensive bags. There were no luxurious shoe racks.

The room was cold, dominated by sterile white. In the middle of the room, a long stainless steel table stood firmly. On it was not cosmetics, but an advanced electron microscope with dual monitors that lit up displaying DNA graphs.

On the wall, there were no aesthetic paintings. What was there was a glass whiteboard full of chemical formulas, gruesome anatomical photos, and newspaper clippings about old unsolved murder cases.

And in the corner of the room, stood upright a real human skeleton neatly hung, as if welcoming guests.

Kalandra took a step back, his legs weak. This is not a socialite wife's room.

This is a laboratory.

"Damn," Kalandra whispered, trembling. "Who are you really, Zoya?"

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