"Apartment No. 47"

 

THE CRIME SCENE

The night was a curtain of fog. London’s winter had sunk its fangs deep into the streets, swallowing sound and color alike. Only the muted pulse of blue police lights flickered through the mist outside Ravenhurst Tower — a twelve-story building that seemed to float in the haze like a ghost of concrete and glass.

Inside Apartment No. 47, a group of officers stood clustered around the body of Arthur Leighton. He lay sprawled near the door, eyes open, his face strangely peaceful — too peaceful. The forensic team murmured in low tones, jotting notes, dusting fingerprints. The air smelled faintly of ozone and cold coffee.

Detective Harris rubbed his temples. “Locked from inside. No forced entry. The windows sealed. He couldn’t have walked out after dying.”

His partner frowned. “Yet CCTV shows him leaving the apartment. Ten minutes before death.”

Harris snorted. “Then either we’re chasing a ghost… or someone wants us to think we are.”

A steady dripping from the sink echoed across the room. The only other movement came from a small pocket watch lying beside Arthur’s hand — its glass cracked, the time frozen exactly fifteen minutes ahead of the current hour.

No one noticed the faint spiral pattern drawn on the wall near the desk. Numbers. Reversed Fibonacci sequence. Arthur’s last attempt at something. Or a warning.

Outside, the fog thickened — as though waiting for someone who could see through it.

ZANE’S APARTMENT

Across town, in a much quieter street, Zane Faulkner sat cross-legged on the couch, his attention fixed on a half-solved crossword and the soft hum of the heater. The faint city lights bled through the window behind him, turning his silhouette into something abstract — part shadow, part intellect.

From the kitchen, Eli’s voice echoed, full of frustration.
“Zane, your idea of breakfast is a crime. Coffee without milk is psychological warfare.”

Zane didn’t look up. “Correction — coffee with milk is a crime. I prefer my thoughts undiluted.”

Eli appeared with two mugs, eyebrows raised. “You know, sometimes I wonder if you even like being human.”

Zane smirked. “I’ve considered resignation.”

Eli rolled his eyes. “Brilliant. Shall I tell the universe you’re quitting?”

Zane was about to reply when the TV caught his attention — the morning news flickered on-screen. A reporter’s voice broke through the fog of their banter:

“A mysterious death in Ravenhurst Tower. The victim, a retired cryptographer, was found dead in a locked apartment. Police are investigating the incident as a potential suicide — though early details suggest something far more unusual.”

Zane’s hand paused midair. His eyes sharpened instantly — the shift from humor to focus was surgical.
“Ravenhurst Tower,” he murmured. “Now that’s interesting.”

Eli groaned. “No, Zane. Don’t even think about it. We promised no more corpses before lunch.”

But Zane was already reaching for his coat, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “Come on, Eli. You can finish your breakfast in the car.”

Eli sighed, grabbing his scarf. “One day, you’ll drag me into something I can’t walk out of.”

Zane opened the door with a glint in his eye. “That’s the plan.”

ARRIVAL AT RAVENHURST TOWER

By the time they arrived, the fog had turned the street into a pale graveyard of light and shadow. The building loomed above them, its street lamps forming halos through the mist.

Eli shoved his hands into his pockets. “You know, Zane, this place looks like the kind of building that eats people.”

Zane glanced up, his tone almost playful. “Then let’s see what it spits out.”

Inside, Detective Harris looked anything but pleased. “Faulkner,” he muttered as Zane entered, “I didn’t call for you.”

Zane flashed a charming grin. “Then consider this an unsolicited favor. You look tired, Harris — thought I’d save you some paperwork.”

Eli coughed to hide a laugh.

Zane’s gaze swept across the room — fast, methodical. He took in the faint burn mark on the rug, the overturned mug, the mathematical scrawls near the wall. His brain processed patterns like gears spinning in silence.

“Victim?” he asked.

“Arthur Leighton,” Harris said grudgingly. “Retired cryptographer. No signs of struggle. Locked from the inside.”

Zane crouched beside the body, studying the expression — the serenity. “No panic, no resistance,” he murmured. “If this was murder, the killer was either trusted… or invisible.”

He turned to the desk — the old typewriter stood open with a single unfinished line:

If I step out, I’ll never return.

Eli frowned. “That’s not creepy at all.”

Zane’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe not a metaphor.”

He glanced toward the clock on the wall — stopped at the same time as the pocket watch, fifteen minutes fast. Coincidence rarely lived in Zane’s world.

THE FOUR SUSPECTS

As the fog rolled denser outside, the suspects were brought into the lounge one by one — all connected to Arthur in some way.

1. Nora Leighton – The victim’s daughter. Elegant, poised, but her voice trembled slightly every time her father’s name was mentioned. She claimed Arthur had been “talking to walls” recently, muttering about breaking codes hidden in time itself.

2. Miles Grant – Arthur’s former colleague, now a freelance mathematician. His hands shook while holding his cup. He insisted Arthur had grown paranoid, claiming someone was watching him through patterns in light.

3. Helen Duvall – The neighbor. Calm, almost too calm. She reported hearing rhythmic clicking sounds from Arthur’s apartment the night before — “like a metronome,” she said.

4. Dr. Callum Vance – Arthur’s physician. Confident, dismissive, the kind of man who didn’t like being questioned. He declared Arthur’s death a stress-induced cardiac arrest before anyone even asked.

Zane took statements quietly, almost lazily — but his eyes were razor sharp, catching details others missed:
Nora’s right hand stained faintly with graphite.
Miles’ cufflink — a replica of Fibonacci spiral.
Helen’s shoes — slightly wet, though it hadn’t rained for hours.
Dr. Vance — avoiding eye contact whenever Arthur’s research was mentioned.

Eli watched him in awe. “Zane, you’re not even writing anything down.”

Zane smiled faintly. “I prefer to remember the lies exactly as they were told.”

THE PATTERNS IN THE WALL

While Harris ordered the suspects to remain nearby, Zane moved to the far wall where faint numbers were scribbled in pencil.
“Reverse Fibonacci sequence,” Eli muttered. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Zane tilted his head. “Maybe he was reversing more than just numbers.”

He knelt closer — noticing something beneath the graphite: the letters R.T. 15 faintly carved into the plaster.

“R.T.?” Eli asked.

“Room temperature? Real time? Or maybe…” Zane’s eyes glimmered. “Ravenhurst Tower — fifteen minutes.”

Eli frowned. “Fifteen minutes ahead. Like the clock.”

Zane stood, looking around the apartment. “Every clock in this room runs faster than reality. Either Arthur was losing his sense of time… or someone wanted us to believe he did.”

A faint chill ran through the air — not from the cold, but from the realization forming behind Zane’s calm expression.

ELI’S THEORY (AND ZANE’S MOCKERY)

Outside the apartment, Eli tried to piece it together.
“So… maybe he tried to recreate a time shift experiment? Like a delusional scientist scenario?”

Zane chuckled, buttoning his coat. “Eli, the man didn’t die from physics. He died from precision.”

Eli frowned. “Precision?”

“Every object here is deliberate. The clocks, the writing, the positioning. Someone staged a puzzle, not a crime scene.”

Eli crossed his arms. “Right. Because murderers usually come with an artistic sense of symmetry.”

Zane grinned. “The best ones do.”

THE MISSING PIECE

As the police cleared out, Zane lingered near the desk. His eyes stopped on a photograph — Arthur standing with Nora, Miles, Helen, and Dr. Vance. But one detail caught his attention: a small reflection in the window behind them — an odd blur that didn’t belong.

He leaned closer, almost whispering, “There you are.”

Eli peeked over his shoulder. “What? What are you seeing now?”

Zane said nothing. His smirk returned, the kind that meant he was already five steps ahead.

He slipped the photo into his coat pocket. “Call Lyra,” he said casually.

Eli blinked. “Lyra? Oh, this is going to be fun.”

Zane’s tone was calm but layered with something else — amusement, maybe anticipation.
“She loves foggy nights,” he said softly. “And this one’s just getting started.”

THE CALL TO LYRA

In the quiet of the car, Zane leaned back, dialing her number.
The phone rang once before a familiar voice answered — smooth, slightly teasing.

“Took you long enough, Zane. I was starting to think you’d forgotten how to get into trouble.”

He smiled faintly. “I tried. It didn’t work.”

“So… what’s the puzzle this time?”

Zane glanced through the windshield — the fog so thick it seemed alive. “An apartment where time ran fifteen minutes faster… and a man who might have died in the future.”

There was a pause, then her amused sigh.

“I’ll be there before your coffee cools.”

Eli groaned. “Great. The dream team’s back. Remind me to pack aspirin.”

Zane’s laugh was low, almost musical. “You’ll survive. Maybe.”

THE NIGHT DEEPENS

Ravenhurst Tower loomed again in the distance, its lights dimmed, the street now nearly deserted.
Zane stood by the car, coat fluttering gently in the cold wind, eyes scanning the windows above.

Eli asked quietly, “You think one of them killed him?”

Zane’s gaze stayed fixed on the building.
“I think one of them learned how to use time as an alibi.”

The fog swallowed their voices as they stepped back into the darkness — unaware that the real revelation was only hours away.

LYRA ARRIVES

The fog had grown denser, wrapping Ravenhurst Tower in silence. The only light came from the golden halos of the street lamps. Zane and Eli stood by the entrance when a familiar figure emerged from the mist — Lyra, wrapped in a long trench coat, her expression both composed and secretly amused.

Eli muttered, “She really does appear like she was waiting for the call.”

Lyra smirked as she approached. “I was.” Then, looking at Zane: “Still chasing impossible puzzles, I see.”

Zane’s lips curved. “And you still arrive just when the impossible starts making sense.”

Eli rolled his eyes. “Great. Flirt first, solve later. Classic strategy.”

Lyra ignored him and stepped inside, scanning the apartment in seconds — the frozen clocks, the scattered papers, the eerie calm. “So… the man dies alone in a sealed room, time runs fifteen minutes ahead, and no one knows how he left or entered. Typical Faulkner case.”

Zane smiled faintly. “Flattery accepted.”

PIECES OF TRUTH

The trio moved through the apartment, each detail now under Lyra’s analytical gaze. She noticed what others missed — the faint smell of burnt paper, a cracked mirror near the hallway, and a streak of water leading to the balcony door.

“Fog outside,” Eli said. “Maybe condensation.”

Lyra shook her head. “No. The streak’s too straight. Someone used water intentionally — maybe to erase something.”

Zane’s eyes darkened with interest. “Or to time-stamp something.”

He stepped toward the balcony, running a finger along the railing. There — a small metallic residue, like silver dust. He rubbed it between his fingers and looked at Lyra.

“Electromagnetic coating,” she whispered. “Used in old recording devices.”

Zane’s tone was calm, but his words sliced through the quiet. “Arthur wasn’t recording sound, Lyra. He was recording time.”

Eli blinked. “Recording… time?”

Zane turned, his voice soft, deliberate. “Imagine a device that slightly delays perception — by seconds, maybe minutes. You’d think you’re living in real time… but you’re not.”

Lyra crossed her arms. “Meaning whoever killed him could have entered, done it, and left before the victim — or the camera — registered it.”

Eli’s jaw dropped. “That’s insane.”

Zane looked at him. “Insanity and genius usually share an apartment.”

THE SUSPECTS REVISITED

Detective Harris had called the suspects back for follow-up questioning. They stood again in the lounge, tension thicker than the fog outside.

Zane moved among them with casual grace, but every step was deliberate. His questions were light, almost playful — yet each word peeled a layer off their lies.

To Nora, he asked, “Your father worked alone. Did he ever mention finishing something?”

She hesitated. “He… said he’d finally ‘decoded the delay.’ I thought it was just another obsession.”

Zane nodded. “And you came to see him last night?”

Her lips trembled. “For ten minutes. Then I left.”

Zane smiled thinly. “You left at 10:30, correct?”

She blinked. “Yes.”

He gestured at the wall clock. “Except this clock ran fifteen minutes fast. Meaning, in real time… you were here at 10:15 — the exact time of death.”

Her eyes widened, the color draining from her face. “That’s impossible—”

“Indeed,” Zane interrupted softly, “that’s what makes it so interesting.”

THE LOGIC OF ILLUSION

After the suspects left, Eli whispered, “So she did it?”

Zane shook his head. “She lied, yes. But lying isn’t the same as killing.”

He pointed to the typewriter. “Arthur’s last line wasn’t a suicide note — it was instruction. If I step out, I’ll never return. He meant, once he activated his device, he’d be out of sync with reality. The moment he tried to fix it… he’d die.”

Lyra frowned. “But who tampered with the device?”

Zane turned to the balcony again, where faint metallic traces gleamed. “Someone who understood his experiment — but didn’t believe it worked. Someone who thought a small adjustment wouldn’t matter.”

Eli looked puzzled. “Who?”

Zane’s eyes flicked to the photograph he’d taken earlier — the reflection in the glass. He placed it under the light, showing a faint outline of a figure standing behind Arthur’s group. Not Miles, not Nora, not Helen… but Dr. Callum Vance.

Lyra leaned closer. “That’s him. But he wasn’t supposed to be there.”

“Exactly,” Zane said. “He lied about when he last saw Arthur. And he wasn’t treating him for stress — he was monitoring side effects from the time experiments.”

Eli whistled softly. “Doctor turns scientist. I should’ve guessed.”

Zane corrected, “Doctor turns murderer.”

THE GATHERING

Later that night, Zane requested everyone assemble in the main lobby of Ravenhurst Tower. The fog pressed against the glass outside, muting the world beyond. The suspects stood nervously, Detective Harris skeptical as ever.

Zane took his place at the center, coat collar up, his expression calm and dangerously composed.

“Let’s begin,” he said softly. “A man dies in a locked apartment. The door sealed, the clocks ahead of time. Everyone here believes it’s impossible — and yet here we stand, inside that impossibility.”

He turned to Nora. “You visited your father at 10:15, not 10:30. But you didn’t kill him. You only argued — about selling his research.”

To Miles: “You broke into his lab last week. But you only wanted to copy his notes.”

To Helen: “You heard rhythmic clicks. That wasn’t a metronome — it was the sound of Arthur’s time coil activating. And you mistook it for a clock.”

Finally, he faced Dr. Vance. “But you, Doctor… you came back later. You used your medical access to enter without being logged. You saw Arthur’s experiment running, and you tried to ‘correct’ the timing. You didn’t realize that your adjustment would trigger an electromagnetic feedback — one that killed him instantly.”

Vance’s face hardened. “That’s absurd! You have no proof.”

Zane stepped forward, placing a small silver fragment on the table — the same metallic residue from the balcony. “Proof enough. This residue matches the compound used in your clinic’s neural stimulator prototypes. Arthur never used such material — but you did.”

Vance’s breath hitched. “You can’t—”

Zane cut him off gently. “I can. Because your fingerprints were on the device’s outer casing — beneath the layer of dust you thought you wiped clean.”

For a moment, silence filled the hall. Then Harris muttered, “Good God…”

Zane’s tone softened. “You didn’t mean to kill him. You only wanted to shut down the experiment — but you reversed the polarity, sending Arthur fifteen minutes ahead of his own heartbeat.”

Vance’s shoulders sagged. “I just wanted him to stop… he was obsessed.”

Zane nodded slowly. “He was. But you killed him out of logic, not malice. Unfortunately, logic doesn’t make the dead breathe again.”

AFTERMATH

As the police led Vance away, fog swirled against the lobby windows. Nora stood silently near the elevator, tears mixed with disbelief. Miles and Helen exchanged stunned glances.

Eli turned to Zane. “So that’s it? The whole riddle — time, clocks, everything?”

Zane smiled faintly. “Not everything. Some riddles stay open just to keep the world interesting.”

Lyra tilted her head. “Meaning?”

He looked out toward the fog. “Arthur succeeded — for a fraction of a second, he stepped outside the timeline. That’s why his heart stopped. His body was here, but his mind wasn’t.”

Eli shuddered. “You think he… saw something?”

Zane didn’t answer. His gaze was distant, like he was watching something only he could see.

THE ROAD BACK

Hours later, the three of them walked toward the car parked under the dim glow of street lamps. The fog still hung heavy, swallowing their footsteps.

Eli stuffed his hands into his coat. “Every time I think I understand you, Zane, you do something impossible.”

Zane grinned. “That’s because you keep expecting sanity.”

Lyra smirked. “And you keep expecting him to explain.”

Eli glanced between them. “Well, someone please explain the part I missed — that smile you had, Zane. When you looked at that photo earlier. What did you see?”

Zane paused beside the car, pulling the photograph from his pocket. He held it under the streetlight — the faint reflection glimmered again.

“It wasn’t just the doctor in the reflection,” he said softly. “Look closer.”

Lyra leaned in. “That shadow… the clock behind them. Its hands point fifteen minutes ahead — even in the reflection.”

Zane nodded. “Exactly. Meaning the device was already running when that picture was taken. Arthur’s death didn’t happen after the photo. It happened during it. Everything else — the arguments, the visits, the confusion — all occurred within those fifteen stolen minutes of time.”

Eli’s voice dropped. “So… he died while the world thought he was still alive.”

Zane slipped the photograph back into his coat, his expression unreadable. “That’s what made it beautiful.”

Lyra watched him for a long moment, her voice softer now. “You really admire him, don’t you?”

Zane gave that same calm, dangerous smile — the one Eli had learned to fear and trust at once. “Anyone who challenges time deserves admiration… even if they lose.”

THE FINAL MOMENT

They reached the car. The engine hummed softly as Zane slid into the driver’s seat. Lyra settled beside him; Eli took the back seat, still lost in thought.

Through the windshield, the street stretched ahead — lamps fading into fog, trees lining both sides like silent witnesses.

Lyra glanced at Zane. “What now?”

He started the engine. “Coffee. Answers. Probably in that order.”

Eli groaned. “Next time, can we solve a case that doesn’t bend time, space, or my sanity?”

Zane smiled — that same quiet, knowing smile that hinted at ten unsolved thoughts behind it. “No promises.”

The car rolled forward, disappearing into the white mist. Behind them, Ravenhurst Tower loomed — silent again, its windows reflecting nothing but fog and the faint echo of a clock that no longer ticked.

As the city lights blurred into distance, Lyra glanced at Zane once more.
“You solved it the moment you saw that photo, didn’t you?”

Zane’s eyes flicked toward her, a glint of humor beneath the calm. “Of course.”

Eli leaned forward. “And you didn’t tell us because…?”

Zane’s smirk widened as the car vanished into the night.
“Because, Eli… some answers deserve their own timing.”

The fog closed behind them, sealing the night — and the mystery — in perfect silence.