THE BODY AT LEVEL B2 The underground parking lot smelled of oil, concrete, and something colder—final. Yellow ceiling lights hummed softly, casting dim reflections on polished car roofs and the taped-off space at Level B2. Officer Rowan stood with her hands on her hips, posture straight, eyes sharp. Around her, officers moved in controlled patterns—photographing tire marks, marking footprints, checking cameras mounted like silent witnesses along the pillars. “The body was found at 5:42 a.m.,” one officer reported. “No signs of struggle. No blood trail. Cause of death still unclear.” Rowan nodded, eyes fixed on the man lying beside a black sedan. Mid-forties. Expensive suit. Phone still in his hand, screen cracked but unlocked. “Which means,” Rowan said calmly, “he didn’t expect to die here.” She crouched slightly, not close enough to contaminate anything. “Parking entry logs?” “Clean. Too clean,” another officer replied. “One camera blind spot. Exactly thirty-four seconds.” Rowan...

  THE BODY BY THE SHORE The storm had been relentless all night, tearing across the shoreline with savage intent. Waves slammed against the rocks like blunt weapons, and the old beach house stood alone, battered yet defiant. Its yellow brick walls were damp, darkened by rain, and a single dim lamp above the entrance flickered as if unsure whether to survive the night. Police vehicles lined the muddy path leading to the house. Red and blue lights cut through the rain, reflecting off puddles and shattered glass near the porch. Inside, the body lay sprawled near the living area, face turned slightly toward the broken window. The sea wind crept in through the opening, carrying the smell of salt and storm. Rowan stood near the doorway, arms crossed, posture straight despite the chaos around her. Her sharp eyes moved from the body to the floor, then to the walls, missing nothing. “The time of death is uncertain,” one officer reported. “The storm messed with everything. Footprints, temper...

. MORNING IN THE APARTMENT The morning sunlight filtered softly through tall glass windows of Zane Faulkner’s studio apartment, casting long stripes across the wooden floor. Zane, barefoot, moved with deliberate calm as he buttered a slice of toast. His white shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, hair stylishly tousled, eyes relaxed yet alert, scanning the room in their usual measured way. Across the table, Eli stared at his coffee as if the tiny bubbles were plotting to explode at any second. “You’re stirring it like it insulted your family,” Zane said mildly, placing the knife carefully on the plate. Eli froze. “I just… I feel today is dangerous.” Zane gave a faint smile. “Toast is burnt, coffee is scared, and you predict doom. A balanced breakfast.” Eli sighed. “One day, your confidence will get us killed.” “Not today,” Zane replied, taking a neat bite, crunching deliberately. “Today feels educational. Dangerous? No. Educational? Certainly.” Eli opened his mouth to argue further ...

  DEAD IN THE NEWSROOM The old newspaper office looked elegant even in silence. Polished wooden panels, tall shelves of bound volumes, and framed front pages lined the walls like trophies of forgotten truths. In the center of the private cabin lay the body of Arthur Hale , retired editor in chief, sprawled beside his desk. His glasses were broken. His expression was calm, almost thoughtful, as if death had interrupted a sentence he was still editing in his mind. Detective Rowan Blake stood near the doorway, arms crossed, listening to two officers briefing her. “No forced entry,” one said. “Security logs are clean. Time of death between nine and ten last night.” Rowan’s eyes moved slowly around the room. “And the desk?” “Nothing stolen. Laptop is here. Phone too.” Rowan stepped closer to the shelves. One folder space was empty, leaving a pale rectangle of dust. She noticed it instantly but said nothing. Her face stayed professional, unreadable, though her thoughts were already movi...

  DEAD SILENCE IN THE GALLERY The private viewing room of the Orion Art Gallery was wrapped in an unnatural quiet. Abstract paintings worth millions stared down from the walls, their sharp colors muted under cold white lights. In the center of the room lay the body of Victor Hale , a well-known art investor, sprawled near a minimalist sculpture. His eyes were open, frozen in a look that was neither fear nor surprise—only disbelief. Police officers moved carefully, gloved hands noting every detail. At the center of it all stood Detective Rowan . Her posture was straight, her expression professional, almost emotionless. She listened as two senior officers spoke at once. “No signs of forced entry,” one said. “Security logs show no intruders,” another added. “And the witness,” a third voice hesitated, “the witness is… blind.” Rowan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Blind doesn’t mean unaware,” she said calmly. “What did he report?” “He claims he heard the killer speak. Described the voice. Ev...

  STORM OVER THE CITY Rain clawed at the windows of Zane Faulkner’s apartment as thunder rolled like an impatient judge. The city below glistened, neon lights bleeding into wet asphalt. Zane stood near the window, calm as ever, adjusting the cuff of his pitch-black overcoat though he had nowhere to go yet. Behind him, Eli paced. “This is not weather,” Eli announced dramatically. “This is the universe telling civilized people to stay inside, drink something warm, and remain alive.” Zane didn’t turn. “The universe has poor manners. It keeps interrupting my evenings.” Eli stopped pacing. “You enjoy this? Storms, darkness, suspicious silence?” “I enjoy patterns,” Zane replied lightly. “Storms simply reveal them.” Lightning flashed. Eli flinched. “Remind me,” Eli said, “why I live with a man who treats danger like a polite guest.” Zane finally faced him, a playful glint in his eyes. “Because danger pays rent in stories, and you enjoy listening.” “I enjoy breathing,” Eli muttered. The ph...

THE BODY IN THE HALL OF ORDER The courthouse was unusually quiet for a working morning. Fog pressed against the tall glass windows like a cautious witness, blurring the city outside into pale shadows. Inside Courtroom Three, yellow lights hummed softly above polished wood and silent benches. Detective Rowan stood near the clerk’s desk, hands behind her back, posture straight, eyes sharp. The body sat slumped in the chair, head resting on the desk as if sleep had won a sudden battle. But sleep did not stiffen fingers. Death did. “Time of death?” Rowan asked without turning. “Between six and seven,” one officer replied. “No signs of struggle. No forced entry anywhere in the building.” Rowan nodded once. “Cause?” “Blunt trauma. Clean hit. Fast.” Her eyes moved to the dead man’s right hand. His fingers clutched a thin file folder, knuckles pale even in death. “That file,” she said. “Anyone identify it?” The officer hesitated. “That’s the strange part. It’s not logged. Not digitally. Not ph...

  THE SCENE THAT NEVER SLEEPS Fog pressed low against the asphalt, swallowing sound and color alike. Yellow street lamps glowed like tired eyes, barely awake, barely useful. Detective Rowan stood near the iron lattice gate—old, massive, and locked—its pattern casting long shadows across the ground. The security guard lay slumped on a chair beside the gate. Dead. Rowan folded her arms, eyes fixed on the body. “Time of death?” “One hour window,” said Officer Miles, checking notes. “No signs of struggle. No forced entry. Chair untouched. Gate untouched.” Officer Hart frowned. “The strange part? Everyone says he never slept. Ever.” Rowan glanced at the guard’s open eyes, glazed and still. “Everyone sleeps,” she said calmly. “They just don’t admit it.” The fog thickened as cameras were checked, logs reviewed, and questions repeated. The guard had been on duty. Alone. Awake—according to every record. Yet dead. Rowan exhaled slowly. “Call Zane Faulkner.” MORNING FOG AND TOAST Zane’s apart...