After leaving the investigation center, Jim's features faded behind a cloud of relentless thought.
There was no exhaustion in his voice, yet his steps were heavier than ever before.
He drove in a straight line toward the homes of the missing—not the dead—as if searching for ghosts inhabiting empty spaces rather than people themselves.
He entered each house one by one, asking personal questions with mechanical calm, while his eyes moved quietly, detecting the faintest tremor in the air.
The families spoke in one collective voice, as though reciting an ancient charm:
"He was kind, never hurt anyone, had no enemies, couldn't have just left us..."
They spoke of their loved ones like angels unfairly ripped from the earth.
Jim listened—but heard nothing.
Deep down, he knew those words helped no one.
They only masked something darker—an illusion of injustice painted across innocent faces.
When he left the last house, he stood by the door, motionless.
His eyes wandered to the sky, now turning slowly into a gentle black, as if the night itself was too shy to descend all at once.
He slipped his hands into his pockets and whispered inwardly,
"Why them? What connects them? It can't be random... something unseen ties them together..."
He started the car with a silent kind of fury and drove off—like a man fleeing a question too heavy to answer.
He stopped at repair shops, scrapyards, and abandoned gas stations, asking about a car whose owner he didn't know—only its shadow that haunted his memory.
But there was nothing.
No trace. No scent. Not even a whisper of existence.
A ghost—like its driver, like the case itself.
By sunset, Detective Jim sat in his car by the roadside, his trembling hand holding a cigarette, the smoke curling around his neck like a tightening noose.
He muttered, staring at the walkie talkie beside him,
"It's the only lead I've got…"
Then he flicked the half-lit cigarette away, as if even fire had lost its will to burn.
When he returned home at six, he entered with an odd quietness, as though he feared the echo of his own footsteps.
He sprayed some cologne to mask the smoke, then headed toward the bedroom.
He didn't know Elizabeth was watching him through the crack of the door, her tearful eyes heavy with silence that could slice through air.
He thought her tears were about his smoking.
They weren't.
He rushed to her, whispering over and over,
"I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"
He pulled her close, his arms tense, as if trying to hold her together before she shattered.
Through her trembling voice came the words:
"Someone tried to kidnap me, Jim… after I went shopping. It almost happened. I was so scared… really scared…"
Jim froze.
His eyes turned to glass, his chest constricted—as though his heart began to quake inside its cage.
In her eyes, he saw that same primal fear he'd seen reflected in the victims'.
Elizabeth continued,
"But I'm fine now… thanks to our neighbor. The one with the scarf. If it weren't for him…"
Then she broke down, sobbing, whispering,
"What if it had been Emily? Or Jack?"
Jim held her tighter, his voice faint,
"It's okay now… we're all okay…"
But his words carried no conviction—just the hollow rhythm of comfort spoken to quiet a fear that never truly sleeps.
Hours later, after she calmed down, Jim spent two full hours by the window, watching the street outside, his eyes tracking every shifting shadow.
His mind whispered,
"Is the killer targeting me now? Was my wife meant to be the eighth victim? And me, the ninth?"
At midnight, he called a security company to install cameras—personally choosing where each should go.
When they finished, he checked his watch and murmured,
"Still early…"
He got in his car and drove toward the neighbor's villa.
A young man opened the door—not the man with the scarf, but his brother.
The man smiled faintly, inviting Jim inside.
The villa was immaculate—too immaculate.
Everything was arranged with lifeless precision, as if the place was a set designed for something that hadn't yet happened.
The brother went to make coffee while Jim's eyes swept the room with obsessive precision.
"You live here with your brother?" he asked.
"Yes," the man replied, "just him and me… and a few ghosts stuck in the walls."
Jim smiled faintly, brushing his fingers along the glass table.
"I only came to thank him—for saving my wife."
"He's not here," the man said. "He went out… to meet someone important."
Jim nodded, accepting the cup.
"Ah, I see. No problem, I'll come back later."
The man tilted his head, his tone oddly philosophical:
"Forgive me if I cross a line—but… are you in a gang?"
Jim paused mid-sip, brow arching.
"Out of all the kinds of men in the world—why assume I'm a monster?"
"Because," the man said coldly, "people don't attack others' families so randomly."
Jim's smile was razor-thin.
"You're right. But I deal with monsters—I'm not one of them. Haven't you seen me on the news?"
"No," the man chuckled quietly, "I don't watch the news. It's all fake. The world's fake. I only watch documentaries—about animals. Animals don't lie. They follow instinct, no performance. But humans… this world is one big theater. And the best man in it is just the best actor."
Jim replied dryly,
"Interesting perspective. But as detectives, we need the news. So… we're a little different."
"Then thank God I'm not a detective," the man murmured.
Jim's gaze drifted around. Everything was sterile—cold.
Paintings, empty vases, silent statues.
The kind of silence that hides a scream.
He stopped in front of a large mirror between two bookshelves and adjusted his tie.
Then, with a weary smile,
"Alright… tell your brother I appreciate what he did."
He turned to leave, paused, then looked back at the mirror.
He spat on his sleeve and wiped the glass clean, whispering,
"There… much better."
Then he walked out.
Later that night, Jim sat alone in his office, fingers tapping the walkie talkie in a long, heavy silence.
He wasn't sure what he was waiting for—a moment, or something unnamed.
At exactly midnight, he called Em.
The man answered after fifteen minutes, voice weary.
"Sorry, I was working on something."
"No problem," Jim said, smiling faintly. "We still have time."
But when the clock struck one, the line went dead.
"We have only one hour," Jim murmured.
Em's voice came back, confused:
"That's impossible… the connection can't just die like that. One hour, not twelve?"
"Why not?" Jim asked.
"What time is it there?"
"12:17 a.m. And you?"
"Noon," Em said. "But it's the same day."
A strange silence settled.
Jim said slowly,
"I see now. We're at the same time… but you're in the light, and I'm in the dark."
Em laughed softly,
"Who told you I'm in the light? Even under the sun… my darkness stays within."
"Sorry," Jim said quietly.
"Don't be. It's a line from some old drama anyway," Em replied, amused.
Jim's gaze drifted, his mind empty.
"Right…" he murmured.
Then—the doorbell rang.
Twice. Slowly.
"What is it?" Em asked.
"Stay with me," Jim said. "Someone's outside."
"Alright," Em replied, chewing. "Finish it quickly."
Jim grabbed the walkie talkie and stepped into the rain.
He opened the door—no one.
The street was empty, silent. Only the rain spoke.
He looked toward the new cameras, wondering if they caught anything, then turned to shut the door.
That's when he saw it—Nine photographs, laid carefully at his doorstep, soaked but horribly clear.
He bent down, hand trembling, and picked them up.
The first photo—Olivia. Bound. Eyes still alive, still searching for hope.
Behind her, a gray wall. Nothing else.
The second—Alfred. Same scene. Same background.
The next five—All the missing ones, caught in the same bleak light, the same void.
But the last two… were different.
Words written in dried, twisted blood:
"Soon…"
"Soon…"
Jim froze.
His mouth quivered, breath shallow.
The walkie talkie slipped from his hand, crashing onto the floor.
Every sound in the house died—Except the whisper of rain,soft and cruel,as if the sky itself were laughing at the man who thought he was chasing the killer—while the killer watched him from between the raindrops.