STORM AND SILENCE The storm had raged for hours, clawing at the city with relentless wind and rain. Lightning cracked open the sky as Zane Faulkner drove through a winding road on the outskirts. His long black overcoat was damp, collar turned up against the cold. Beside him, Eli shivered under his scarf, staring through the fogged windshield. "You still haven’t told me what the case is," Eli muttered. Zane smiled without looking. "Let the fog clear first." "Very funny," Eli grumbled. "Middle of the night, no destination in sight, and a cryptic detective who thinks suspense is foreplay." Zane glanced sideways. "We got a call. A woman. She was terrified. Screamed for help. Then silence." "So?" "The number was disconnected twelve years ago." Eli blinked. "What?" Zane nodded. "And the call came from a house that’s supposed to be abandoned." THE ABANDONED HOUSE The house stood at the very e...

  A ROAD WRAPPED IN FOG The road stretched endlessly into mist. Zane Faulkner sat behind the wheel, his gaze fixed forward, his gloved fingers gently tapping to an internal rhythm only he could hear. Next to him, Eli huddled in a thick coat, visibly shivering. "You’re not going to tell me what the case is about, are you?" Eli asked, frustration in his voice. Zane offered his signature smirk. "Where’s the fun in that?" Eli exhaled sharply. "It’s freezing, we’re driving through a ghost town, and you’re enjoying the mystery more than me not knowing anything. Classic." "You’ll appreciate the drama soon enough," Zane replied. THE TEDDY BEAR SIGNATURE The police station smelled of stale coffee and desperation. Chief Ramis looked exhausted, a man worn down by horror. "Three girls," he said, laying down a folder. "Three weeks. All of them twenty-five. All found near the shoreline." Zane flipped through the photos. Eli winced. "Wh...

  It was raining lightly when the knock came — urgent, uneven, and trembling. Zane Faulkner, in his silk robe and slippers, leaned back on the couch, tossing a peanut into the air and catching it with his mouth. Eli, curled in a blanket, glanced toward the door. "Don’t open it," he mumbled. "Looks like another husband who's lost his wife at the mall." Zane's eyes sparkled. "Let’s see if the mall sells guilt this season." The door creaked open. A man stood in the hallway, soaked in sweat despite the rain, collar pressed neatly, shirt spotless. His face was pale and his lips quivered. “My wife… she’s been missing for two days,” he said. “The police think she left me. I know she didn’t.” Zane said nothing. He watched the man’s eyes. They blinked too often. “Come in,” Zane finally said, softly. Eli groaned. “We’re not running a lost-and-found, Zane.” Zane smiled. But in his mind, a seed had already been planted. DAY ONE – THE FRIENDS Her nam...

  T he rain fell in silver threads over the glittering glass dome of the International Gem Expo. Beneath the floodlights and velvet ropes stood the world’s largest diamond—an oval stone larger than a hen’s egg, glowing with a pale blue hue. It was known as "The Soul of Nyanga", a gem so rare it had its own mythos. Cameras clicked, guests murmured in awe, and security officers watched like hawks. Among them, the diamond’s owner, Sir Reginald Cavendish, beamed with pride. And then, the lights went out. A single gunshot shattered the silence. When the backup lights flickered on, the glass case was shattered, the diamond gone—and Cavendish lay face-down in a pool of blood. Three hours later, Zane Faulkner stood in the middle of the crime scene, twirling a half-melted mint between his fingers. His signature long black overcoat was still damp from the rain, but his expression was dryly amused. Eli hovered nearby, already nervous. "Remind me again," Eli whispered, "wh...

  It had been an unusually quiet week for Zane Faulkner — no murders, no codes, no cryptic messages left in blood. Just silence. Boredom had started gnawing at his nerves. “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Eli muttered, adjusting his tie in the mirror. “It’s called living, Eli,” Zane replied with a sly grin. “Normal people dine in seven-star hotels without stumbling over corpses, you know.” Eli scoffed. “Not when you’re around.” They had come to the Grand Royale, the city’s only seven-star hotel, just for dinner. No case, no mystery — just the thrill of opulence and a temporary escape from their relentless work. But fate had other plans. The Fall : They had barely taken their seats when a scream sliced through the air. Diners rushed to the giant glass windows overlooking the main courtyard. Zane’s eyes were already narrowed, calculating. Then it happened. A girl — no older than 25 — fell from the 4th floor balcony. She hit the ground with a sickening crunch, sprawled in front of ...

The light had been there all night. Bright, steady, pulsing like a heartbeat over the waves. And in the morning... it was gone. Not destroyed. Not broken. Gone—without a trace. Zane Faulkner stood at the edge of the cliff, coat swaying in the ocean breeze. Behind him, Eli rubbed his arms, shivering despite the sunlight. “We saw it last night. I swear, it was right there.” “I know,” Zane murmured. “Which makes it even stranger.” “Stranger than a lighthouse disappearing overnight?” Zane didn’t reply. His eyes scanned the empty space where the lighthouse should have stood—no rubble, no foundation, not even a shadow on the grass. From behind, a familiar voice snapped, “Tourists aren’t allowed here.” They turned. A tall man with a weather-beaten face approached, arms crossed. His name was Marcus—a local with the permanent look of someone chewing on a lemon. “I should’ve known,” Marcus muttered, glaring at Zane. “Faulkner shows up, and things start vanishing.” Zane smiled innocently. “Come n...

  London — 6:35 PM The rain poured like secrets from the sky, tapping against the old windows of the Marlborough Library. Inside, under the warm glow of a chandelier, Zane Faulkner leaned back on a leather chair, fingers clasped, eyes closed — not asleep, but deep in thought. Across from him, Eli stared out the foggy glass, sipping tea. “I swear, Zane,” he muttered, “We haven’t had a case in days. I’m starting to miss getting shot at.” Zane smirked without opening his eyes. “Careful what you wish for.” Just then, a knock at the door. It creaked open, and Dr. Lyra Vance stepped in, trench coat wet, cheeks flushed, eyes hiding storms. “I need ten minutes,” she said firmly. Eli blinked. “You again?” Lyra ignored him, her gaze locked on Zane. “I’m not here for you. I’m here because a very old manuscript just reappeared… and it’s soaked in blood.” Zane opened one eye. “Now that’s how you say hello.” Marlborough Archives — 8:15 PM The library’s restricted section smelled of dust and forg...

  London – 11:03 AM Zane Faulkner lay on the couch, one leg dangling, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling fan. Eli sat nearby, flipping through a crossword puzzle book with the enthusiasm of a man trying not to yawn himself into a coma. "I'm starting to think crime took a vacation," Zane muttered. Eli grunted. "I wouldn't mind a break. Last case nearly got us both electrocuted." A sudden knock interrupted the boredom. Zane sat up. The door opened — and in walked Dr. Lyra Vance. Soaked from the light drizzle outside, she had her usual trench coat, but her sharp eyes seemed… unsettled. "Let me guess," Zane said with a faint smile, "you missed me." Lyra rolled her eyes. "I came here because you’re the only man who can’t sit still when a story stinks." She pulled out a folded newspaper and dropped it on the coffee table. "Young journalist. Amelia Ward. Disappeared three days ago. Last seen investigating a derelict asylum ou...

London, UK – 8:47 PM The rain tapped like cold fingers on the café window as Zane Faulkner stirred his black coffee. His mind was elsewhere — tangled in fragments of a story that refused to stay buried. Across the table, Eli shuffled through a dusty envelope. "These were sent anonymously," he said. "Sealed blueprints of a Transylvanian monastery... and a letter that just says: ‘The past remembers.’" Zane raised an eyebrow. "Charming." "But here’s the real kicker," Eli leaned in, lowering his voice. "That same monastery — it burned down in 1947. No known survivors. No records. And yet, two weeks ago, someone filed an electrical permit in its name." Zane smiled faintly. "Ghosts with a wiring problem?" Their conversation was cut short by a sharp knock on the café window. A tall woman in a trench coat stepped inside — soaked from the rain, cheeks flushed, eyes like sharp amber. "Dr. Lyra Vance," she said, tossing her coa...

 Zane Faulkner was reclining on his sleek leather sofa, a battered Raymond Chandler novel resting on his chest and a cup of cold coffee forgotten on the side table. Outside his London apartment, the evening fog was crawling through the alleys like a ghost. From the kitchen, Eli emerged with a sandwich in one hand and mild concern in the other. “You read crime novels for fun when you solve real ones for a living?” he asked. Zane smiled lazily. “Reality often lacks dramatic flair. I prefer both.” Just then, his phone buzzed. An unknown number. Zane answered. A low, calm voice spoke with perfect clarity. “Hello, Zane. Your time starts... now.” The line went dead. Zane’s eyes narrowed, and the air around him shifted. He stood up, grabbed his coat, and muttered, “Let’s go, Eli. The game’s begun.” The First Move Two hours later, Zane was walking near Trafalgar Square. Tourists bustled around, unaware of the quiet predator circling in the mist. Suddenly, from a rooftop above, a cement blo...

  “Every locked door tells a story. Some scream to be heard.” The body was found at precisely 3:15 a.m. In a luxury high-rise apartment in West London. Inside a room locked  from the inside . No windows open. No signs of struggle. Just a dead man, a spilled glass of wine, and a small music box playing softly. The Uninvited Guest “Remind me again why we’re here?” Eli asked, clutching his coat tighter. Zane Faulkner twirled a cocktail olive on a toothpick. “Because boredom is a dangerous thing, Eli. Like tea without biscuits — utterly pointless.” They had been crashing a party hosted by a tech billionaire. Zane wasn’t invited, of course. But he  never  needed an invitation. He had charm. And several fake IDs. Then the music stopped. Screams echoed from the 11th floor. Security ran up. Guests whispered. “Someone’s dead,” a woman gasped. “They said the door was locked from inside.” Zane’s eyes lit up. “Finally, something worth staying for.” The Impossible Crime Mr. Hugo ...