Ramis Walker stood at the window of his small office, staring down at the wet streets of Eldridge City. The rain had started just after dawn, a soft, steady drizzle that turned the sidewalks into shiny black mirrors. Cars crawled along Maple Avenue below, their tires hissing against the pavement. Horns blared now and then, but no one seemed in a real hurry. It was just another Thursday in a city that never slept but always complained about it.
Ramis was twenty-six, tall at six-foot-one, with a lean, athletic build he kept sharp through early morning runs and late-night gym sessions. His short black hair was still damp from the shower, and a faint stubble shadowed his jaw. Sharp green eyes, the kind that noticed every little detail, scanned the street below. A thin scar ran along the outside of his left knee, hidden under his dark jeans. The accident four years ago had ended his dream of joining the police force. A drunk driver had slammed into his car during a rainstorm much like this one. The knee never healed right. No more academy for him. But the mind? That still worked just fine. Better than fine, his parents always said.
He turned away from the window and sat behind his cluttered desk. The office of Walker Investigations was nothing fancy—just one room on the second floor of an old brick building in Midtown. The walls were lined with metal filing cabinets that creaked when you opened them. A worn leather couch sat against one wall for clients who needed to talk. His computer hummed softly, the screen showing a half-finished report on a cheating husband case he had wrapped up yesterday. A half-empty mug of black coffee cooled beside a stack of case files. The air smelled of old paper, fresh rain, and the faint vanilla from the candle his mother had sent last week.
Ramis rubbed his knee absently. The ache was always there on rainy days, a dull reminder. But he didn't dwell on it. He had built this life instead. Private investigator. Sometimes he helped the police when they asked. His father made sure of that. Captain Marcus Walker ran the homicide unit like a well-oiled machine—strict, fair, and damn good at his job. His mother, Elena, worked somewhere higher up, in the secret service. She never talked about it, and the family never pushed. They were close, the three of them. Only child meant he got all the love and all the worry. Last night his father had texted him a silly meme about bad coffee, and his mother had called just to ask if he had eaten dinner. Normal stuff.
The phone on his desk rang, cutting through the quiet hum of the office. Ramis glanced at the caller ID: Dad. He picked it up on the second ring.
"Morning, Captain," Ramis said, his voice low and easy. A small smile tugged at his lips. "You calling to check if I ate breakfast, or did Mom put you up to it?"
A deep chuckle came through the line. Captain Marcus Walker's voice was gravelly from years of shouting orders and smoking too many cigarettes back in the day. "Both, smartass. But that's not why I'm calling. Listen, son… we've got one at the Grandview Towers. It's a real bad. I want you here."
Ramis straightened in his chair. His father didn't ask for help often. When he did, it meant the case was ugly or strange or both. "What kind of bad?"
"Can't say over the phone. But the boys are stumped already, and it's only been two hours. You know how I feel about stumped. Get your ass down here. I'll have the sergeant wave you through the tape."
Ramis stood up, already reaching for his worn black leather jacket hanging on the back of the chair. "On my way. Need me to bring anything?"
"Just that brain of yours will be okay. This one… it doesn't feel right, Ramis. See you in twenty."
The line went dead. Ramis slipped the phone into his pocket and grabbed his keys. He locked the office door behind him, the sign reading WALKER INVESTIGATIONS swinging gently. The hallway smelled of damp carpet and the Chinese takeout from the place downstairs. He took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the twinge in his knee. Outside, the rain had picked up just a little. He pulled up the collar of his jacket and jogged to his old gray sedan parked at the curb. The car was reliable, even if the heater rattled and the passenger seat had a permanent coffee stain.
Eldridge City unfolded around him as he drove. The Midtown buildings gave way to taller glass towers in the financial district. Billboards glowed even in the rain—ads for new tech gadgets, luxury watches, and the latest superhero movie. Pedestrians huddled under umbrellas, faces hidden. A group of kids in school uniforms splashed through puddles, laughing. Ramis smiled faintly. Life went on, no matter what.
He turned onto the wide boulevard that led to the upscale Riverfront area. Grandview Towers rose ahead—two sleek twenty-story buildings of glass and steel overlooking the dark river. It was the kind of place where lawyers, bankers, and tech execs lived. Not the usual spot for a homicide. Police cars lined the circular driveway, lights flashing red and blue against the wet pavement. Yellow crime scene tape stretched across the main entrance. Uniformed officers stood guard, their dark blue raincoats glistening.
Ramis parked behind a patrol car and stepped out. The rain pattered on his jacket. He limped slightly as he approached the tape, but he kept his head high. A young female officer with a tight ponytail and sharp brown eyes stepped forward. Her name tag read OFFICER L. REYES.
"Sir, this is a closed scene—"
"Ramis Walker," he said calmly. "Captain Walker's expecting me."
Officer Reyes checked her clipboard, then nodded once. Her face softened a fraction. "Go on up. Fifteenth floor. Apartment 1503. Watch your step—techs are still working."
Ramis ducked under the tape and entered the lobby. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and a doorman who looked pale and shaken behind his desk. The elevator ride was quiet except for the soft ding of each floor. When the doors opened on fifteen, the hallway was alive with quiet activity. Detectives in plain clothes murmured into phones. Forensic techs in white suits moved in and out of apartment 1503 carrying cameras and evidence bags.
Captain Marcus Walker stood near the open door, arms crossed over his broad chest. He was fifty-four, built like a retired linebacker—six feet tall, salt-and-pepper hair cut military short, and a face that had seen too many nights without sleep. His dark blue suit was crisp despite the rain. When he spotted Ramis, his stern expression cracked into a small, tired smile.
"There's my boy," he said, voice low so only Ramis could hear. He clapped a heavy hand on Ramis's shoulder. "Glad you came. Your mother's gonna kill me for dragging you into this, but I need you on this."
Ramis nodded, eyes already scanning the doorway. "What's the story?"
Marcus lowered his voice. "Victim's name is Victor Lang. Forty-two. Big-shot investment guy. Lived alone. Maid found him this morning when she came in. No signs of forced entry. No robbery—wallet, watch, everything's still here. But the way he's… arranged. It's not normal. No obvious weapon. No blood. Looks like he just sat down and died, except for the way his eyes are wide open. And that smile."
Ramis felt a small chill run down his spine. He stepped past his father into the apartment.
The living room was modern and expensive—white leather couches, a massive flat-screen, floor-to-ceiling windows showing the rainy river view. But all eyes were on the man in the high-backed armchair facing the window. Victor Lang sat perfectly upright, hands resting neatly on the armrests like he was waiting for a meeting. He wore a silk robe and pajama pants. His face was pale, almost waxy. His eyes stared straight ahead, unblinking. And yes—there was a faint, peaceful smile on his lips, as if he had seen something beautiful right before the end.
Two forensic techs knelt nearby, one dusting for prints, the other photographing the body from every angle. A middle-aged detective with a thick mustache and a coffee-stained tie—Detective Ruiz—stood by the window, scribbling notes. He glanced at Ramis and gave a respectful nod. Everyone in the unit knew Ramis. They also knew not to ask too many questions about why the captain's son was here.
Ramis moved closer, slow and careful not to touch anything. He crouched beside the chair, ignoring the protest in his knee. Up close, Victor Lang looked almost serene. Too serene for a dead man in a locked apartment. There were no bruises and cuts. Just that wide smile and empty eyes.
Ramis's mind was already turning, sorting details. The position of the hands. The angle of the head. The faint scent of something sweet in the air—maybe cologne, maybe something else. This wasn't a normal killing. This was something carefully planned.
He looked back at his father standing in the doorway, watching him with quiet pride and quiet worry.
"Dad," Ramis said softly, "this one's going to take time."
Captain Marcus Walker nodded once, the rain tapping steadily against the windows behind him.
"I know, son. That's why you're here."
The city outside kept moving, cars splashing through puddles, people rushing to work. But inside apartment 1503, the air felt heavy. Ramis Walker stood up slowly, green eyes sharp and focused. The first pieces of the puzzle were in front of him, small and strange and waiting.
He had no idea yet how deep this mystery would go. But he was already hooked.