Night was falling over the city like a heavy shroud—crushing the chests of everyone…
everyone except Jim.
For Jim, night had long forgotten the path to rest.
When he saw the cat curled in William's arms, he felt the distance between him and the truth suddenly shrink, as if the entire world had been swallowed inside the pupils of that young man.
But alongside that sudden closeness…
there was another feeling crawling beside it—
a cold, creeping whisper telling him that something in this person's eyes warned that Jim was walking down the wrong path.
Jim lifted his gaze into William's eyes.
They were cold.
Deranged.
Unnatural.
Eyes that could only belong to a fractured mind.
And that was true—William was, in fact, unhinged.
The mother and father stormed into the room, standing between Jim and their "prey," repeating in trembling panic:
"Our son could never hurt anyone! He's different, believe me… he's an angel!"
Jim stepped forward without a word and grabbed William by the collar, as if ripping the truth straight from its roots. While he dragged him away, the cat hissed viciously, trying to attack, yet William himself remained perfectly calm—
a calmness too wrong, too deliberate…
the kind of stillness only a killer wears when he knows his role isn't over yet.
Jim cuffed him and shoved him into the car while Son spoke with the parents.
Jim sat behind the wheel, glanced through the window, and said in a tight, strained voice:
"Hurry."
Son ran to the car, slipped into his seat, buckled up, and murmured:
"This is completely wrong."
Jim turned his head slightly, his eyes reflecting exhaustion layered with madness.
"I know… We detained him aggressively. We'll get in trouble for that. We'll classify him as a witness—
not a suspect. Not until we prove otherwise."
Son shook his head.
"No. That's not what I meant…"
Jim frowned.
"Then what's bothering you?"
Son inhaled deeply.
"The parents said the boy… isn't normal. He's autistic."
Jim's face froze.
"…What?"
He slammed on the brakes.
Twisted around violently to look into William's eyes—
But William wasn't even looking back.
He was busy staring at the handcuffs… giggling at them as if they were a toy.
A laugh… inhuman.
Jim smiled weakly and focused on the road again.
"Don't let that fool you, Son. We're dealing with a smart killer. One who knows how to act. This isn't a thief or a rapist… it's a psychopath. And they always pretend when cornered. Always."
Son remained unconvinced, but Jim's words were heavy—
the kind of weight that made thoughts stumble.
Jim was the most brilliant detective in the city…
even his superiors feared his logic.
When they arrived at the station, Jim was about to interrogate William before the chief called him in.
To Son he said:
"Ask him basic questions. Look into his childhood, previous offenses, and get a psychological profile. Autism might be a cover."
Jim entered the chief's office.
The room felt dense, as if the air itself was filled with old victories and fresh mistakes.
The chief stood with his back to him, hands clasped, fighting something inside himself.
He turned sharply.
"Jim… no one here knows you better than I do. You were my assistant. You're the reason I climbed up… while you chose to remain a detective. I'm grateful for everything. But things have changed.
Pressure is growing… so is doubt.
Did you hear the reporters shouting downstairs?"
— "Yes. I heard them."
The chief shook his head.
"That noise wasn't there when we were winning. But it's here now—during our first failure."
He stepped closer, voice dropping like he was gripping the truth with bare hands.
"Have you changed your methods, Jim?"
Jim breathed slowly.
"Yes… I changed them. I had to. Guilt's been following me for a long time. But that's not why we're failing.
These crimes are complicated and leave no trace.
The killer doesn't strike in predictable places—everything is prepared, delivered to us without a single clue. We searched for the killer's car, showed photos, questioned every workshop… nothing.
But don't worry. We're close. It's almost over.
We already have a suspect.
It's only a matter of time before we prove he's the one."
The chief sank into his chair.
"I don't care how close you are. I care how fast you get this done."
Jim returned to the interrogation room.
Son was still trying—and failing—to pry a single useful word from William's silence.
Inside the interrogation room, Sun sat with William, speaking quietly.
Jim asked:
"Did he say anything?"
Sun replied:
"Just random things."
Jim stepped forward:
"Alright. My turn."
He ran to his car, grabbed the crime scene photos, returned, and told Sun:
"Step out for a moment. Leave me with the killer. Face to face."
Sun obeyed.
Jim sat slowly across from William.
The boy was staring at a spot on the floor—the exact place where Mary had died.
Jim whispered:
"Yes… you're right. Right there. That's where your victim fell. You couldn't have planned the spot she landed too… could you?"
William finally raised his eyes.
Cold. Hollow.
He spoke with an eerie, childlike tone:
"Blood … there's a smell of blood."
Jim laid the photos on the table one by one.
"Yes. Exactly. Because of you."
He tapped Mary's picture.
"Her blood. But how did you do it? How did you keep the rat alive inside her stomach?"
William lifted the photo, studying it like a toy, and said:
"Science."
Jim smirked darkly.
"Of course."
Then asked:
"Do you recognize these people?"
William muttered:
"I want juice now."
Jim chuckled:
"We'll get you juice. Just tell me—do you know who they are?"
William leaned closer to the photos.
"Handcuffs… dolls… mine."
Jim's mind flashed—electric.He's talking. He's confessing without confessing.Jim fetched the juice.William drank it greedily, spilling it down his chin and onto his clothes.The cat jumped away, as if she sensed something humans couldn't.
Jim asked:
"Finished? Good… now look at these faces. Do you know where they are?"
William looked up, whispered:
"Where?"
Then raised his finger toward the ceiling and said:
"Heaven."
And laughed.
Jim snapped.
He grabbed William's hair, yanking his head upward:
"Stop pretending, you psychopath! You're done. Do you understand? You're done!"
Sun stormed in, pulling Jim off:
"What the hell is wrong with you, man? You know this is illegal!"
Jim stared, smiling bitterly:
"Illegal? Yeah… you're right."
Then leaned in, voice low, deadly:
"Don't let that lunatic walk out. He is the killer."
Jim went straight to the morgue.
He walked in without knocking.
Yara was bent over Mary's corpse.
Every word she spoke was a thread pulling something tighter inside Jim's skull.
The nail…
The capsule…
The surgical incision…
The rat…
"To place a life inside another life… to make death."
Yara's voice built a new hell inside Jim's mind.
She said:
"Putting a rat inside someone's abdomen and keeping them both alive… that requires a killer with medical skills and strong technical knowledge."
"Jim, this killer is dangerous. Watch your self yourself. Don't push too hard."
Jim replied:
"I will. I'll see you soon. You know what? Come visit tomorrow—bring father and mother with you. It'll be good for all of us. Deal?"
Yara agreed.
Jim hesitated at the door.
Turned back.
Looked at her strangely—Then came the moment he revealed the request…
the one that made her conscience weep.
He returned to the station.
2 AM.
Son was still watching William.
Jim stepped in slowly, eyes glimmering with a manic shine.
"Don't worry… we got him. It's over. We won."
"What do you mean?"
Jim leaned in.
"They found…a blonde hair inside Mary's body.
Guess who it belongs to?"
Son looked at the sleeping William.
Fear crawled up his throat.
"It belongs to him…"
Jim smiled.
"Of course…
It does."