THE CRIME SCENE The park was drowned in fog so thick it felt like the night had grown lungs and was quietly breathing. Pale lamplight seeped through the mist, illuminating the wooden bench where a young man lay motionless. His head tilted sideways, his eyes wide open—not in fear, but in a kind of silent disbelief, as if the final thing he saw had made no sense to him at all. Detective Rowan Hayes pulled his scarf tighter. “We found him about an hour ago,” he muttered. “Name: Daniel Hart . Twenty-seven. No wounds. No struggle. No signs of poison. But…” He pointed at the victim’s right hand. Clutched between the stiff fingers was a torn diary page , edges ripped violently, and smeared faintly with mud. At the center of the page, only one line was readable: “He changes his name…” The rest had been scratched out. Hayes sighed. “Medical examiner says Daniel died of sudden cardiac collapse. But his body position doesn’t match that. It looks like he sat down expecting someone.” The f...

  THE EMPTY APARTMENT The apartment was silent except for the faint ticking of a wall clock and the gentle hum of the city outside the window. Zane Faulkner sat on the sofa, legs crossed, wearing his dark coat as though he were waiting for someone. His smirk was faint, almost playful, as he raised an eyebrow toward his companion. Eli, short and round-cheeked, with that childlike innocence permanently stamped on his face, was pacing back and forth. He wore a black suit that looked a size too big, and on his head sat a small round hat that made him resemble a comic sketch rather than an assistant to one of the sharpest minds in the city. “You know what the problem is, Zane?” Eli finally declared, stopping in front of the sofa. “The problem is that you don’t let life surprise you anymore. We’ve been sitting here for days. No mystery. No danger. Just boredom and your smug smile.” Zane tilted his head, the smirk sharpening. “Danger? You miss it, Eli? Should I throw you out of the w...