The police station that night—13 July 1990—felt like a living organism pulsing beneath the neon lights and the trapped heat of the building. By day, detectives rushed between desks, papers piled high, phones ringing without mercy. But tonight… it was different.
The Chief sat alone in his office, newspapers scattered across his desk. Two anxious parents waited outside. William was locked in the interrogation room. Officers moved through the corridors like parts of a precise, tireless machine. Everything was awake. Everything was alive. Because a brilliant killer had stepped onto the board… leaving behind a web no one could fully see.
Despite having a suspect in custody, Jim knew the real beginning hadn't even started. The victims remained unknown. The evidence almost nonexistent—except for a single strand of hair. William claimed mental deficiency, refusing to confess, dancing around every question, shutting every window of truth.
For Jim, it had become a silent waiting game… a space where the mind tries to tie threads together, to imagine the place where the victims might be. If the sixth murder didn't occur, the conclusion would be nearly certain: William was the killer.
Yet Jim couldn't stop thinking:
Could he avoid his own tragic end? If he couldn't, then everything Jim was doing was meaningless—shadows moving in an empty void.
At 2:30 a.m., Son told Jim to take a short break. He and the rest of the force would maintain control.
Jim resisted, but Son insisted.
"Fine," Jim finally said, "but put conditions on monitoring William's parents as well. They're suspects too. We have to stand in the way of the sixth crime… and stop it."
Son smiled softly. "They're already under surveillance. Go home. Check on your family."
Jim didn't want to leave. Leaving felt like stepping out of a battlefield before the war had even begun. Still, he drove a short distance away from the station, and sleep dragged him under— until he snapped awake at ten in the morning.
He didn't head to the station first. He went to the villa.
He approached the two officers guarding his home.
"Anything happen?" Jim asked.
Both shook their heads.
"Thanks," he said, touching their shoulders briefly before entering.
His family was still asleep—holiday morning. Everyone at peace… except Jim.
He sat alone in the garden, brow furrowed, staring at the patch of earth where two crows had fallen days before. His mind kept circling the mystery: Did these birds represent present and future? One fighting… the other surrendering?
Jim smirked to himself. "No. Not everything needs to be a message. Maybe nature just does what it wants… and we're nothing but observers."
Emily broke his thoughts.
"Who are you talking to, Dad?"
Jim looked at her. "You're awake?"
She rubbed her eyes. "Yes. But who were you talking to?"
He smiled faintly. "Talking to myself. Most detectives do. Go inside, wash your face, and wake your brother. It's a sunny day—you shouldn't miss it."
"Okay, Dad," she whispered, wandering back inside.
Jim leaned back in his chair, eyes tracing the drifting clouds. Maybe it was the stillness of the sky—no thunder, no rain—just warm, gentle sunlight.
A reminder: Keep your heart warm too.
After breakfast, the family went out shopping. Vegetables, dough—pizza night. Jim was the head chef, trained during his university days at a famous restaurant.
Back home, he laid the ingredients out, Emily and Jack watching eagerly. Elizabeth loaded the laundry.
"To make a proper pizza," Jim said, "you have to listen to the Italian music." He put on his old Italian CD and began kneading the dough.
The kids helped—kneading, stretching, trying not to drop anything— while Elizabeth watched from afar, laughing quietly.
The final result: a cheese pizza that could make a man bite his own fingers.
"If Signor Roberto were here," Jim said, "he'd be proud."
"Who's Signor Roberto?" Jack asked.
Jim chuckled. "The owner of the restaurant I worked in. First person to taste my cooking… and like it."
At 5 p.m., the doorbell rang.
Jim opened the door. His father was the first he saw, laughing:
"Did you really put guards here to stop us from coming in?"
Jim replied dryly, "I doubt they could." He embraced his father.
Then his mother hugged him tightly. "We missed you."
"I missed you too. I always wanted to visit, but work kept stopping me."
Yara stood with her hands in her pockets—no hug. "How are you?"
"I'm fine. Come in."
The family spent the evening together—laughing, eating, playing. Jim sat back, not distant from the joy, but wanting to see it clearly. Every smile, every worry in Elizabeth's eyes— all of it slipping quietly into memory.
Later, outside in the garden, Jim sat with the phone, waiting for Em's call. A cigarette between his fingers—unlit, just a familiar weight.
He stared at the stars, trying to decide which one was the largest— until footsteps approached.
Yara sat beside him.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked.
Jim exhaled. "Nothing. Just trying to figure out which star is the biggest. But the truth? They're all big… We're the small ones. Humans think we matter, that we're central to everything. But we're nothing. Creatures with destinies written long before we were born."
Yara took the cigarette from his hand. "Light it."
He hesitated. She insisted.
They lit it. Laughed hysterically. Then her laughter cracked… and she began to cry.
Jim stiffened, gently patting her back.
Yara whispered through tears: "I looked into the guy you arrested. He's different, not normal, but… it's not him. I went to see him and… when I looked into his eyes, I didn't see a killer's eyes. Strange, right? Someone like me—someone who only believes in science—now reading people's eyes like a book. I'm sorry, Jim. I won't do this again. The guilt… it broke my back, my conscience. I won't let it continue."
She dropped the strand of hair Jim had given her onto the grass.
Jim stayed silent. Shaken. He had felt exactly what she felt.
Yara was trying to escape her ending. Jim was trying to escape his.
She got into her car quickly. "Tomorrow I'll come pick up Mom and Dad."
Jim stood there, phone in hand, letting her words echo inside his skull. Then he slammed the door behind him, sat alone, body curled inward, head heavy— the sound calling him like a distant hell, yet also the only remaining hope.
He answered the call.
"I'm here," Jim said. "Say something."
Em replied quietly, "Hello Jim. How are you? Your voice… doesn't sound well."
Jim muttered, "If you were in my place, would you be well?"
"You're right," Em said softly. "But our worlds are different. There's still a chance. I saw it… that moment when you changed everything, even if just for a little while. That's a strong sign."
Jim whispered, "Let's say I catch the killer… save the victims. Does it really change my ending?"
"I don't know," Em admitted. "No one does. But if you leave the paper as it is, the result won't change. Do what you must… and hope fate bends. You have four chances—four victims still alive, clinging to the thinnest thread of hope, while you're thinking of giving up. What would they feel… looking at you?"
Jim's eyes widened. "You're right… I have to keep going. Sorry. I let the future crush me, but the truth hasn't come yet. Even the sixth victim isn't dead yet,But I don't imagine this will happen. right?"
Em suddenly gasped. "The sixth victim…it happened,I forgot to tell you. I think It's an hour away—your time. I studied the time difference between our worlds. You're at the start of your day, I'm in the afternoon… which means— you're one hour away from the sixth crime!"
Jim said surprised:
The sixth victim? What are you talking about?but I have the suspect.
Em replied, "I don't know, Jim. There are still the sixth, seventh, and eighth and nine crimes right here in front of me. Those happened 20 years ago, so I don't think that you have the suspect, isn't really him."
Jim said, puzzled, "But you're the one who told me his name."
Em replied, surprised and denying it, "Me?"
"What?" Jim breathed.
"You have to go now," Em urged. "The victim is in an abandoned factory—used to print newspapers. The old Daily Telegram factory."
"Abandoned? Isn't it still running?" Jim asked.
"It's closed in my time, but that doesn't matter. Go. Now. Hurry!"
Time began to move. Jim dropped the phone on the doorstep, got into his car, and drove straight toward the crime scene— leaving behind a voice that was both deafening and real.