The Shadow Without A Face (Part 1)

 

 The Suicide That Wasn’t

The rain hadn't stopped in hours. Outside Zane Faulkner's window, the city was blurred beneath sheets of water, neon signs flickering in the wet dusk. Thunder rolled in the distance, steady and unbothered — as if nature itself was giving a warning.

Zane sat cross-legged on his vintage leather armchair, a cup of black tea in one hand, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular. That faint, unreadable smile — the one he wore when thinking five steps ahead — rested lightly on his face.

On the couch, Eli was hunched over a pile of files. "Zane, you’re going to want to see this,” he said, flipping through crime scene photos. “Third ‘suicide’ this month. Same pattern. Same timing. Same digital trace.”

Zane’s eyebrow lifted slightly. “What pattern?”

Eli slid a folder toward him. “All three victims were in completely different parts of the city. No apparent link. Different professions. No mutual acquaintances. But right before their deaths — all three sent an email to the same untraceable address. Same IP. Same subject line: ‘Forgive me.’”

Zane took a sip of tea. “Show me the sender addresses.”

Eli nodded. “Fake. All three. But they came from public café terminals. CCTV’s wiped clean.”

Zane leaned forward now, smile unchanged, but interest sparking behind his eyes. “That's not suicide. That’s choreography.”

“Exactly,” Eli replied. “And here’s the kicker — the last victim, a university chemistry professor, left behind a handwritten suicide note. It said: ‘I had no choice. He was already inside.’”

Zane's smile widened ever so slightly. “Interesting phrasing. Not ‘he broke in,’ or ‘he threatened me.’ He was already inside. Psychological invasion.”

“And,” Eli added, “two hours before the professor’s death, campus security received a call from a man claiming to be his brother. Calm voice. Said he needed access to the lab. They let him in. No ID check.”

“Voiceprint?” Zane asked.

“Not recorded. But the guard said it was… unnervingly calm. Robotic almost. Like someone reading a script.”

Zane placed his cup down gently. “Someone is playing a very precise game.”

There was a pause, and then Eli asked the question they both were thinking:

“Do you think it’s him? The Architect?”

Zane didn’t answer immediately. He stood, walked to the bookshelf, and pulled out a small black box. Inside were objects: a rusted chess piece, an antique brass key, a burned microchip.

“Three years ago,” Zane said quietly, “he sent me a queen. Just the queen. In the mail. No return address. No fingerprints.”

“That was after Berlin?”

Zane nodded. “I beat him. Barely. And he told me… in his own way, he’d come back. With a different face.”

Eli swallowed. “So you think this is the return match?”

Zane looked out the window again, where the rain had begun to fall even harder.

“No,” he murmured. “This is just the opening move.”

Next Morning – Morgue, City Medical Facility

The morgue was cold and sterile. Zane stood beside the covered body of the chemistry professor. A young coroner flipped through the report nervously.

“No signs of struggle. Death by potassium cyanide. Fast acting. The handwriting matches.”

Zane didn’t look at the report. He was staring at the corpse’s fingers.

“Why are his nails clean?” he asked.

The coroner blinked. “Sir?”

“Chemistry professor. Regular lab worker. No gloves found at scene. But zero chemical residue, zero discoloration, perfectly trimmed. Either he had a manicure hours before dying... or he never touched the chemicals himself.”

“So someone else prepared the poison?”

Zane didn’t answer. He stepped back, scanning the room. And then his eyes caught it — a folded napkin under the corpse’s collar.

He pulled it out carefully.

A hotel logo. “Fleur d’Or.” Expensive. Private. Only for diplomats, foreign agents... and ghosts.

On the back of the napkin, scrawled in neat black ink, were five words:

"Your move, Mr. Faulkner."

Zane’s smile returned. Sharper this time.

That Night – The Trap

Zane and Eli sat in a nondescript surveillance van outside the Fleur d’Or. Rain tapped on the windshield like impatient fingers. Inside the hotel, Zane had booked a room under a false identity — a bait.

“I've got motion on the south corridor,” Eli said, monitoring the thermal cameras. “One figure. Calm walk. No umbrella.”

Zane leaned over. “Let him enter. Record everything.”

The man walked into the lobby. He was tall, lean, wearing a tailored grey coat. A cap. Masked face — standard. But the way he walked — controlled, precise. Not a single wasted movement.

He approached the front desk. Whispered something. The receptionist nodded. No ID check. No hesitation.

Zane narrowed his eyes.

Eli’s monitor blinked. “He’s… gone. He just— vanished off the thermal.”

“Wait—” Zane sat up. “Backtrack. Show me lobby cam feed.”

Eli rewound. They watched the man enter… approach the desk… and then — flicker. For a split second, the feed stuttered.

Zane’s face hardened. “He looped the feed. Real-time masking. That’s tech we don’t even have yet.”

“Zane…” Eli’s voice trembled. “We’re not chasing a killer. We’re chasing a ghost with a PhD in everything.”

Zane stood, adjusted his coat.

“No,” he said calmly. “We’re chasing Lucian Vale.”

Hours Later – The Message

Zane entered the hotel room he had reserved for the trap. Lights were untouched. The bed still made. But on the window — drawn in condensation — was a symbol.

A chessboard. Just the queen. Alone.

And below it, etched faintly into the fog:

“Endgame begins in 72 hours.”

To Be Continued...