Lucian stepped into the house, his gaze sweeping across the room with measured intent. To others, this was a living room, but to him, the term felt meaningless, another piece of his memory lost to the void. All he saw was a space, an arrangement of objects that held no familiarity, no comfort.

  Two doors inside the house, one leading to another room, another place right under the stair, unknown in its purpose. A staircase curled toward the upper floor. Positioned near its base sat a long, plush couch, fluffy, inviting, yet hollow in its presence. Across from it, two smaller chairs mirrored the arrangement, forming a conversational circle centered around a low wooden table.

  Farther in, something caught his eye, a strange, thin machine resting atop a wooden cabinet lined with drawers. It had a screen. Was this a television? Lucian wasn’t sure. His mind clawed for recognition, but all he felt was absence.

  But none of it mattered. Not when a body lay at the foot of the staircase.

  The corpse was obscured beneath a large cloth, draped with careful precision, as if concealing it would somehow erase the tragedy from the space.

  Lucian stood frozen for a moment. How was he supposed to react?

  Part of him told him he should feel something, horror, sympathy, disgust, anything. But nothing came.

  How could he mourn a man he didn’t know?

  Sheriff broke the silence. His gaze flickered toward an officer standing nearby.

  "Jacob, tell me what you’ve got."

  The officer, young, mid-twenties, clad in a standard yellow uniform snapped to attention. Black gloves encased his hands, and atop his head sat a modified police hat, an intriguing mechanical component attached to one side, resembling an enhanced visor. He gripped a collection of report papers in one hand, a strange-looking suitcase hanging by his side.

  Jacob nodded sharply. "Yes, sir."

  He flipped through the report with practiced ease before speaking.

  "The victim is Philip Fletcher. Thirty-two years old. Single. Worked as a manager in one of the Francis family’s factories here in District 19."

  He handed both Vincent and Lucian a photograph of the deceased, Philip, alive, dressed casually, his face neutral. But in the image of his corpse, a deep, jagged fracture marred his skull.

  “From what we find on the man's body, his hair is somewhat wet, there is a large crash on his head. From his location, we can assume that Philip fell from the stairs and hit his head.”

  Lucian studied the photo carefully. Vincent, however, only glanced at it briefly before speaking, his voice carrying a subtle edge of skepticism.

  "Are you telling me this was an accident?"

  Jacob shook his head.

  "It's not that simple."

  Setting his suitcase down, he flipped to another section of the report.

  "The witness, the woman who called this in, told us she was walking past the house when she heard something strange. As she got closer, she saw Philip crawling on the floor, toward the door, injured."

  Jacob paused slightly before continuing.

  "Then, she saw someone. A figure. They struck Philip as he struggled, delivering a final blow to the head."

  Lucian’s grip tightened slightly on the photograph as he listened to what Jacob had to say.

  "She ran, panicked and called us. But here’s the problem"

  Jacob’s voice lowered as he gestured toward the covered corpse.

  "When we arrived and examined the body, Philip’s head wasn’t facing toward the door, as the witness described. There was no blood trail, no signs of dragging, nothing to suggest he had crawled. And, more importantly"

  He picked up the report again.

  "We haven’t found the murder weapon."

  Vincent narrowed his eyes slightly. "No blunt object on-site that could've caused the wound?"

  "None."

  Sheriff, standing silently beside them, let out a slow, measured sigh.

  "Have you checked the district cameras?" Vincent asked, his voice steady.

  Sheriff shook his head, arms crossing as frustration seeped into his expression.

  "Useless."

  His tone carried the weight of aggravation, the kind that came when obstacles stacked against an investigation.

  "There was a gang war a few days ago, The Embermark Syndicate. Internal fighting. Normally, they keep their battles contained in their own territories, but their infighting escalated. It’s getting worse."

  His gaze flickered toward Lucian and Vincent.

  "During one of their clashes, they damaged a distribution substation here in District 19. Fortunately, only the surveillance system was affected, but the cameras went down. Repairs are underway, but it'll take at least three more days before they’re operational again. Until then, we won’t have footage."

  Silence lingered for a moment, tension wrapping around them like a vice. Lucian glanced toward the body once more. Something about this was wrong.

  Philip Fletcher hadn’t simply fallen. And if the witness was telling the truth, if she had really seen someone strike him down,

  Then there was still a killer inside this house.Vincent stopped, his gaze sweeping across the room as he processed the information. His eyes, sharp and calculating, shifted back to Jacob.

  "Can you show me around the first floor and tell me what you’ve found?"

  Jacob nodded.

  "Of course. First off, when we arrived, the front door wasn’t locked. We entered the house, and the first thing we saw was Philip’s body lying at the base of the stairs."

  Jacob led the group toward one of the doors at the opposite end of the room, gesturing toward it as he spoke.

  "This door leads into the kitchen."

  With a firm push, he opened the door, allowing Vincent and Lucian to step inside.

  Sheriff, however, remained outside, his sharp gaze lingering on Lucian. There was something unsettling about him, something off. Sheriff couldn’t quite put his finger on it, maybe Lucian was simply observing Vincent, measuring his capabilities as a detective? Testing whether he was competent enough? Sheriff shook his head slightly.

  The Lucian he knew wouldn’t waste time analyzing a partner.

  Lucian had always been a no-nonsense investigator, ruthless in his pursuit of answers. He didn’t care who worked alongside him, as long as they could help him solve the case. But the Lucian is standing in front of him now…

  Was not the same man.

  The once-dominant detective, the one who took charge, who asked questions, who relentlessly pursued clues, was quiet. Passive. Watching instead of leading. Sheriff exhaled through his nose, perhaps he was wrong, maybe something had changed.

  He just wasn’t sure what.

  Inside the kitchen, the atmosphere was sterile, too normal for a crime scene. The countertops lined the walls, adorned with neatly placed cookware and utensils. Cabinets hung above, stocked with ingredients and supplies, meticulously arranged for easy access. Pots, pans, knives, cutting boards, and even a toaster sat undisturbed, their presence untouched by chaos.

  Near the far end of the counter sat a deep sink, the usual spot for washing dishes or prepping food. An oven stood beside it, and tucked against the wall was a large refrigerator, its humming barely audible in the quiet room. A small dining table sat near the center, empty.

  Lucian scanned the space carefully.

  Everything seemed… normal.

  No disturbances. No signs of struggle. Nothing out of place.

  Vincent, however, moved with precision, checking the sink, inspecting cabinets, searching for anything that might hint at the killer’s methods.

  Jacob spoke again.

  "Once we arrived, we divided into three teams, one examined the body, another checked upstairs, and the last searched the first floor."

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Vincent straightened slightly, his fingers grazing the edge of the countertop.

  "I assume you conducted a Luminol test, correct?"

  Jacob nodded. "Correct. Other than the location where the victim was found, there was no trace of blood anywhere."

  Vincent’s expression darkened slightly, his eyes narrowing in thought.

  "If the witness was telling the truth, then Philip’s blood should be somewhere, either trailing from the stairs to the door or pooling in the spots where he was attacked."

  He gestured toward the countertops and cabinets.

  "My first assumption was that the murderer used cleaning tools to remove the evidence, perhaps washing the murder weapon or scrubbing the blood. But to my surprise"

  Vincent smirked slightly, placing his fingers against his chin.

  "There’s nothing here."

  Jacob nodded in agreement. "Exactly. We considered the same possibility, but after checking both the kitchen and the upstairs bathroom, we found no evidence of blood removal."

  Vincent’s smirk deepened, his posture shifting as his mind pieced together possibilities.

  "A killer capable of cleaning blood and moving a body, without any visible tools?"

  His gaze flicked toward Lucian.

  "Does that ring any bells, Mister Lucian?"

  Lucian tensed slightly under Vincent’s stare, his nerves creeping in as he forced himself to respond.

  "Uh… I don’t think we have enough evidence to say anything just yet. How about we continue exploring the first floor?"

  Vincent didn’t react immediately, for a moment, his smirk faded. His gaze lingered on Lucian, studying him, judging him, something had shifted.

  At their first meeting, Vincent regarded Lucian with a level of respect, perhaps admiration, and acknowledgment of the detective’s reputation. But now? That respect had dulled something had changed. And Vincent was beginning to notice it, he turned away, his tone lighter but still edged with quiet skepticism.

  "Very well."

  Vincent looked at Jacob. "Officer, lead the way."

  Jacob nodded. "This way."

  As they exited the room, Lucian followed behind, his thoughts tangled in uncertainty.

  He then sees Sofia, who is walking right behind Vincent, does she alway follow Vincent like this? What is she? His bodyguard? Lucian shook his head, it no longer mattered, the positions had shifted. Vincent had caught onto something. He wasn’t looking at Lucian with the same regard anymore. And worse, he hadn’t said why, Lucian's stomach twisted. Could it be Vincent realized he wasn’t the same Lucian as before? That he just a fraud?

  Lucian exhaled sharply, frustration clawing at the edges of his mind.

  “I hate this feeling.” This wasn’t why he had come.

  All he wanted was to meet people who knew his past self, to ask them who he used to be. But instead, he had walked straight into a suffocating tension, and now, even if he wanted to ask…

  It would be strange. Suspicious. If he had known it would be this difficult, maybe he wouldn’t have come at all. Jacob led them toward a second door on the first floor, stopping just before it.

  "This door leads down to the basement. Let me grab you some flashlights."

  He turned, walking toward the entrance leading outside.

  Vincent glanced at Sheriff. "It there no electricity in the basement?"

  Sheriff crossed his arms, nodding.

  "I wouldn’t say there’s no electricity. There is, but the lights aren’t working. Also there’s something else I want to tell you."

  He gestured toward the doorknob.

  "When we first checked the basement, there was an imprint, almost like a hand gripping the handle."

  Sheriff’s gaze darkened slightly.

  "This door hadn’t been used in a long time. Someone have use it lately”

  Vincent’s expression sharpened. He turned toward the door, eyeing the dust-coated surface carefully. The shape Sheriff described was no longer visible, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t been there, Lucian followed his gaze, his own uncertainty rising.They had no choice but to take Sheriff’s word for it, Jacob returned a moment later, handing out flashlights.

  "Here, one for each of you."

  He paused before turning to Sheriff. "And one for you, sir."

  Sheriff chuckled. "You know I don’t need one, right?"

  Jacob smirked slightly. "Of course, sir. But since we have the tools for it, you don’t have to waste energy maintaining your night vision."

  Lucian stiffened slightly.

  Night vision?

  The phrase confused him, he wanted to ask what Jacob meant by that. But this isn’t the time

  Jacob switched on his flashlight, pushing open the door. Vincent, Lucian, Sofia, and Sheriff stepped through, descending into the basement below darkness enveloped them. The single exposed bulb overhead hung useless, its filament long dead.

  The air was thick, heavy with dust and the scent of aged wood and damp stone. Rusted pipes stretched across the ceiling, groaning occasionally, their echoes whispering secrets of years long forgotten.

  Against one wall, stacks of abandoned cardboard boxes slumped under their own weight, some torn open, revealing yellowed papers and obsolete electronics.

  Cobwebs hung lazily from the corners, untouched.

  Near the back of the basement stood an imposing wardrobe, its edges chipped, the paint peeling in long, curling strips.

  The five of them moved through the space, their footsteps deliberate. The silence was oppressive, too still for comfort.

  Jacob finally spoke.

  "We searched the basement earlier. Nothing appears to have changed or moved"

  Vincent moved carefully, sweeping his flashlight across the space as he walked just behind Jacob.

  "Sheriff mentioned there was an imprint on the doorknob before entering."

  Jacob glanced back at Vincent.

  "Yes. It wasn’t quite a handprint, more like the shape of a hand gripping the handle."

  Jacob’s expression tensed slightly.

  "More importantly, when we tested for fingerprints—there were none."

  Vincent’s eyes narrowed. "None?"

  Jacob nodded. "Whoever opened it was wearing gloves."

  Silence hung between them, meanwhile, Lucian stood still, scanning the room.His thoughts spiraled.

  Nothing seemed wrong. Nothing was out of place.

  Then, Sheriff’s voice broke through his focus.

  "What are you trying to find, Detective?"

  Lucian tensed, turning to see Sheriff standing behind him.

  He swallowed hard, forcing a smile.

  "I’m looking for clues, of course."

  Sheriff’s expression remained unreadable as he stepped closer.

  "That, I understand," he said, his tone even.

  He paused.

  "But what exactly do you expect to find here? A blood trail? The murder weapon? What do you think could be hidden in a place like this that will lead you to the truth?"

  Lucian froze.Sheriff was right. Lucian hadn’t thought about what he was looking for. He was just hoping to stumble onto something useful, drifting through the investigation with no real sense of direction.

  But how could he start? Lucian wasn’t the same detective everyone expected him to be. He didn’t know how to be a detective at all. Sheriff look at Lucian, noting the silence, the uncertainty, the hesitation.

  Then, with a quiet sigh, he spoke.

  "The real clues rarely hide in darkness. They're buried in the routines people dismiss, the details everyone else ignores. Illuminate their habits, and the trail will appear. That it what you used to tell me, and"

  Sheriff’s gaze flickered toward Vincent.

  "That's what that boy is doing."

  He turned back to Lucian, his voice carrying a firm weight.

  "A detective doesn't just look at the surface. You have to search for every detail no one else sees. You have to know what you're trying to find and how to find it."

  Sheriff’s tone deepened.

  "If you want to find the person who stole your food off the table, you have to consider, where did you place it? Who was nearby? Who else knew where it was? You piece together everything, every small truth and eventually, the whole picture comes together."

  He exhaled sharply.

  "Most of the time, the clue is right in front of your face. You just haven’t noticed it yet."

  Lucian listened, but more importantly, he felt the weight of his words.

  "A detective is curious. A detective never stops asking questions. They chase every answer until they finally reach the truth."

  Lucian’s chest tightened, this wasn’t something he had thought about before, not really. His hands clenched at his sides, then slowly, his determination sparked, a flame flickering to life.

  "You're right, Sheriff, thank you for your advice"

  His voice carried new resolve. He straightened his posture, exhaling sharply.

  "Please excuse me."

  Without another word, Lucian began to move. His breath steadied, his steps deliberate, searching the basement with renewed determination. The dim glow of his flashlight swept across the aging walls, revealing layers of dust, forgotten belongings, and the quiet remnants of a space long neglected.

  Vincent, meanwhile, had already surveyed most of the basement. His sharp gaze flickered over the scattered storage boxes, the rusted pipes overhead, the old wardrobe standing ominously near the back. He exhaled quietly, deep in thought.

  He was starting to piece it together, the method, the setup, but the who remained elusive.

  That was the problem.

  “Philip would have no reason to wear gloves in his own home.”

  Vincent murmured under his breath, his fingers traced the edge of a dusty shelf as he processed his thoughts.

  “If the culprit wore gloves, that means this wasn’t some spur-of-the-moment act. It was planned. They waited until the surveillance system was down, and the ability to clean blood and move a body, without any visible tools.”

  His voice lowered, the weight of realization settling in.

  “Could it be…?”

  On the other side of the basement, Lucian continued his search, his flashlight cutting through the darkness. Every object, every piece of furniture felt static, unchanged, as if untouched by the crime.

  And yet, something was off. His eyes flickered toward the old wardrobe near the far wall, as he get closer to the wardrobe, he then hear a faint sound, almost imperceptible.

  Lucian froze. It was low, distant, but present. The kind of noise just loud enough to catch his attention, yet subtle enough to make him question whether he was imagining it.

  His heart tightened slightly, he stepped closer, flashlight angled downward. His fingers brushed against the aged wood, rough beneath his touch.

  The sound faded, lucian’s brow furrowed.

  He grasped the handle and pulled the doors open.

  Nothing.

  The wardrobe was empty. Lucian stared inside, feeling an eerie silence settle over him. The noise had stopped the moment he opened it, he tilted his head, eyes narrowing.

  “What was that sound?”

  A feeling crawled up his spine, not fear, but something else. A lingering unease. Before he could investigate further

  “Mister Lucian, we’re leaving.”

  Jacob’s voice called from the stairs. Lucian jerked his head toward him, blinking away his thoughts.

  "Vincent wants to check the second floor."

  Lucian hesitated, his gaze flickering back to the wardrobe one last time. Then, exhaling slowly, he turned away.

  “I will be right there.”

  The five of them ascended the staircase, their footsteps echoing against the wooden steps. Lucian’s pace was steady, yet his mind remained elsewhere, trapped in that moment, replaying the faint sound, the emptiness of the wardrobe, the strange stillness that followed. Something wasn’t right.

  His eyes lingered on the basement entrance as they climbed.But for now, the exploration of the basement was over. Their next destination, the second floor, where Philip Fletcher had supposedly fallen and died of head trauma.