In that cold room, filled with the sterile scent of disinfectants and medicine, Ethan sat in a patient's gown, his back resting against the metal headboard of the hospital bed. The blanket reached up to his abdomen, and between his fingers he held several papers that appeared crucial — the deep furrow between his brows revealing the strain of concentration. His sharp eyes swept over every line, forgetting his illness for a moment, consumed only by the thread that might lead him to what he sought.
File: Case No. 3645/2025
Victim's Name: Rosalina Carter
Age: 58 years old
Occupation: Recently retired teacher
Marital Status: Widow, living alone
Date of Discovery: May 3rd, 2025
Location: Apartment No. 14, Fifth Floor, Berkeley Street – San Francisco
Incident Report:
At exactly 9:30 p.m. on the night of May 3rd, this year, a report was filed by neighbors across the hall about a foul odor emanating from the victim's apartment. Upon entering, officers discovered the body lying face-down in her bedroom, with her only son beside her, clutching her lifeless form in a hysterical state — his mental balance clearly disturbed.
Forensic Report:
Autopsy revealed the body was in an advanced state of decomposition — estimated time of death: two to three days prior.
Cause of Death: Seven stab wounds to the back, piercing the thoracic vertebrae and leading to respiratory failure, severe internal bleeding, and spinal cord damage.
Estimated Time of Death: Between 7:00 and 8:00 p.m., two to three days before the crime scene was discovered.
Bruises on both wrists indicate resistance.
No signs of intense struggle.
Traces of an unknown substance in the liver — possibly remnants of the victim's medication.
Crime Scene Observations:
Doors and windows: completely intact, no signs of forced entry.
Blood traces: found only beneath the body — no splatter elsewhere in the apartment.
Under luminol testing, faint traces of blood were found in the bathroom sink, invisible to the naked eye.
(Luminol: a chemical compound that reveals traces of blood even after cleaning. It reacts with the iron in blood, glowing blue in the dark.)
General Environment:
The apartment was generally neat and orderly.
Dead flowers in the vase, though the son claimed his mother replaced them weekly.
The landline was unplugged.
No broken locks, no signs of robbery.
No witnesses — only one person involved: Liam Rodam.
Ethan's prolonged stare at the file filled his mind with countless possibilities.
The murder wasn't random. The killer was careful — no forced entry meant the perpetrator either knew the victim or had a copy of her keys.
Slight resistance but minimal blood spatter suggested she wasn't killed in the same place she was found. Could the crime scene have been staged to mislead investigators?
The blood traces in the bathroom hinted at an attempt to clean or wash something connected to the crime.
Her son, Liam, stood to gain the most from her death — the insurance policy of a widow would go to no one else.
And his psychological instability — a motive for murder, yet also a potential shield if proven legally insane.
Ethan sighed, placing the first file aside. He closed his eyes, reconstructing the crime scene in his mind.
If someone she knew had come — she would have opened the door willingly. But what brought her into the bedroom?
Was she lured there?
And why didn't she scream — no marks of violent resistance. Unless... the scene was faked. Unless she was killed elsewhere and then brought back.
But how? The cameras showed nothing.
And the pool of blood beneath her — if she'd been carried, there would've been trails, drips... but there were none.
Ethan's thoughts were interrupted by Max entering the room. His demeanor was off — dimmed, unlike his usual self. He didn't even ask what Ethan was doing. Sitting down, he interlaced his fingers and spoke quietly.
"What happened? Were you assigned something new?" Ethan narrowed his eyes, suspicion lacing his tone.
Max didn't respond right away. He simply sighed, stretched across the couch, his throat dry as he finally forced the words out.
"Eileen came back... I saw her just now."
His voice was hoarse — like someone holding back years of anger and grief.
Ethan furrowed his brows, trying to recall the name. Then he jolted upright, forgetting his own pain until it made him groan, clutching his stomach.
"Your ex-wife? What do you mean 'came back'? Don't tell me you're still thinking about that woman — that damn witch."
Ethan's eyes held disbelief, a tinge of concern that his friend's heart might soften again.
"She's still my wife — not my ex. Watch your words. And don't worry, there's no going back. I just... needed to know she's alright."
Ethan almost snapped at the mention of Eileen, ready to remind Max she was nothing but a closed chapter — but then fell silent. The tremor in Max's voice and the way his damp palms rubbed together spoke of a man who hadn't truly let go... not yet.
Ethan didn't want to press further, but the detective in him couldn't resist.
"And how exactly did you 'make sure' she's alright, Max?"
His tone held quiet disbelief. He knew of Max's obsessive attachment — the childhood neighbor who became his wife, only to vanish without reason five years ago.
Max had searched everywhere — hospitals, police stations — and found nothing.
Ethan had assumed that after all this time, he'd finally given up hope. But what good could her return bring now, after all those years of abandonment?
Max exhaled shakily, his fist trembling until his nails dug into his palm.
"Eileen... she's been addicted to drugs for the past four years."
Ethan's eyes widened in shock. Eileen — missing without explanation, now revealed as a drug addict?
Her disappearance had never made sense. And Max — the officer sworn to arrest drug dealers — hadn't turned her in?
"Are you insane?!" Ethan snapped.
"She left you for drugs?! You, of all people — the one chasing down the men who sell that poison?"
He glared in disbelief, still trying to convince his friend to move on.
"No, Ethan," Max said, voice trembling, eyes distant. "Don't tempt me with that thought — that she left me. She didn't. I know her. She's under the influence. If she weren't, she would've come home... she'd still be my wife."
Ethan could only turn his gaze away, unwilling to deepen the wound — yet unable to quiet the unease curling in his chest.
The silence in the air was suffocating, pressing down on their chests.
Max rose abruptly, determined to step outside and breathe in some fresh air — perhaps it would grant him a fleeting moment of euphoria, one that could erase from his mind the image of her pale eyes, the dark circles beneath them, her ashen face, and the trembling of her frail body marked by every trace of the needles that carried poison through her veins.
He couldn't bring himself to believe that the woman who had stood before him, speaking with such cold detachment, was the same girl he had loved since childhood — more than fifteen years of love, of first glances, longing, and the warmth of that first embrace. Could she really have abandoned all that now?
Just as his hand brushed the cold door handle, Ethan's voice pierced through the heavy air — words he had heard before, venomous and memorized by heart.
He knew what Max was thinking.
"Don't destroy yourself for a woman who abandoned you. She doesn't deserve you."
Max's grip tightened instinctively around the handle; blood surged to his head. His sharp gaze silenced any further words.
"Remember," he said through clenched teeth, "the woman you insult so easily is still my wife. Whether you or even she deny it — I won't divorce her."
Once the desperate words left his lips, he yanked the door open and slammed it shut behind him.
No one would ever understand him — not the world, not Ethan, and certainly not himself. Eileen... his wife, his childhood sweetheart, the first woman he ever loved.
Meanwhile
In Camila's apartment, bathed in soft golden light...
She sat by her window, her head leaning against the cool glass, reading a psychology book in a half-hearted attempt to distract her thoughts — to analyze personality types as though by doing so, she might calm the chaos of her own mind.
Her phone buzzed on the table beside her, the screen lighting up with a new message.
Anna?
It was her friend Anna, inviting her to join her at a nightclub that evening.
Though they hadn't seen each other for quite some time, Anna remained the only one who still tried to pull Camila out from under the crushing weight of her own anxiety.
Camila furrowed her brows, exhaling in annoyance. She wanted to decline — but if she kept moving endlessly between work and home, she knew she'd one day become the patient instead of the therapist.
She closed the book with a sigh, setting it gently on the nightstand beside her bed — as though it were something precious that mustn't be scratched or touched too roughly.
Hands on her hips, she stared at her evening dresses — most of which still had their price tags attached.
The sharp sound of her black heels echoed against the marble steps as she descended, where Anna waited for her in a car — a gift from her husband.
Camila slid into the passenger seat, asking with surprise,
"When did you get a new car?"
It seemed she had been far more consumed by her own world than she realized, unaware of even the simplest updates in her closest friend's life.
"Kevin gave it to me for my birthday last year," Anna replied proudly, adjusting her hair as she started the engine, eager to dive into a reckless night.
Camila chuckled softly at her friend's energy. Watching the passing lights of houses and streets flicker across her window, she felt — for the first time in weeks — alive, free, untethered.
The cold wind rushed through the open window, lifting her dark hair away from her face, whispering to her that pressure was only a construct of her mind — while life, careless and relentless, moved on without her.
The booming rhythm of music could be heard even from outside the club — a massive place guarded by bouncers at the entrance.
Camila had never liked such places, not even as a teenager, yet something about the chaos intrigued her tonight.
They stepped out of the car, Anna pushing open the heavy metal door — as if opening a gate to another world, one that looked far too much like the mouth of hell.
The flashing red and blue lights made it nearly impossible to keep one's eyes open. Half-naked bodies swayed to the pounding beat, and it was clear that the people here came from wealth — designer clothes, decades-old bottles of wine, and even discreet exchanges of unnamed drugs.
They were unfamiliar to Anna, but not to Camila. She'd seen such substances too many times in her profession.
Her lips curled in quiet amusement. Every human indulgence, every vice, seemed to find its place here.
Anna danced wildly, whiskey burning down her throat, her laughter loud and unrestrained.
Camila watched her, sipping her drink, savoring the rare stillness inside her own mind.
When Anna slammed her glass against the bar and pulled her toward the dance floor, Camila hesitated, shy at first — surrounded by moving bodies and unfamiliar energy — but eventually, she gave in. Just for the thrill of it.
The sound of a key scraping against the door lock echoed in the quiet apartment as Camila stumbled inside, laughter faint on her lips. Her head still buzzed with the music from earlier.
She tossed her purse onto the bed and collapsed beside it, sighing deeply.
She wasn't exactly drunk, but two glasses had been enough to give her a dangerous sort of courage — or maybe recklessness.
Without thinking, her trembling hand reached for her phone.
The number she called had been long blocked — but tonight, she unblocked it.
Her heart raced as she chewed on her nail, waiting.
The moment his voice came through, deep and amused, she froze.
"I'm no longer surprised by your behavior, Camila," Ethan's tired voice said — slow, mocking, familiar.
"I just... I was only calling to..."
Her words stumbled, falling away from her tongue. Her voice softened, trembling with something she didn't want to name.
"I just wanted to check on you, Detective. You know — after all, you were hurt... because of me."
Ethan chuckled lightly.
"No, not because of you. I was the target from the start. I would never have let you get hurt."
Camila hummed faintly, unable to answer. Silence filled more of the call than words ever could. She hung up abruptly, her cheeks burning, legs swaying in the air.
Why was it suddenly so warm in the room? Surely just the alcohol.
She blocked his number again — before she could make the same mistake twice.
"Just as we agreed, Joseph — every movement, every visitor, every call she makes... I want daily reports."
Ethan's tone was cold as he ended the call right after hers.
Max entered the room as he slipped his phone into his pocket. Though still resentful of him, Max couldn't abandon his friend, not when he was clearly spiraling.
He studied Ethan closely, suspicion flashing in his eyes. Sitting on the couch, he waited until Ethan's call ended. Then, in a low voice, he said,
"Unbelievable... So Alexander was right? Damn it, Ethan — do you care about her?"
Ethan gave a short, dry laugh, brushing off the accusation.
"I doubt I even know what love is anymore. Camila is just a useful card in this game. If she doesn't lead me to proof against Liam, she'll at least lead me somewhere."
Max didn't believe him — not entirely — but he forced himself to ignore it, convincing himself it was purely professional surveillance.
Still, he warned him, voice heavy with meaning,
"Falling for a suspect is punishable, Ethan. Just like when a patient falls for their therapist. You know that, right?"
Ethan caught the implication immediately. His lips twitched into a small smile.
"I'm not stupid enough to lose both my job and myself twice," he said quietly.
"Camila... is a mystery I intend to solve."
Later that night — in Camila's apartment...
She slept soundly, wrapped in soft blankets, the hum of the air conditioner lulling her deeper into peace.
Until the doorbell shattered that peace — loud, insistent knocks following it.
Camila groaned, opening her eyes reluctantly. Her head throbbed — a brutal hangover.
Who in the world would come at this hour?
She glanced at her phone. 1:00 a.m.
Cursing under her breath, she threw the covers aside and stumbled to the door, still in her pajamas, ready to lash out at whoever dared disturb her.
But when she pulled the handle — she froze.
"Liam?!"
He collapsed into her, trembling, sobbing, clinging to her desperately.
She shut the door quickly, guiding him to the couch as he wept uncontrollably, his breathing erratic.
Camila's instincts kicked in — part compassion, part habit. She rubbed his back gently, smoothed his hair, whispering words of comfort.
Then she noticed — his breathing had stopped. Panic surged through her.
She rushed to her bedroom, rummaging frantically until she found an inhaler. Returning to him, she pried his mouth open and pressed it to his lips. He inhaled — slowly, painfully — until his trembling subsided.
"What happened, Liam?"
Her tone was not that of a psychiatrist — but of a woman whose heart ached in recognition.
He looked at her, eyes wild, haunted, speaking of fear and guilt.
He told her about his mother — Rosalina — and the visions that wouldn't leave him.
Camila held him gently, her hand stroking his hair. She understood his illness — the obsessive thoughts, the guilt, the unrelenting doubt.
"Breathe, Liam. No one's going to hurt you. I'm here."
But then his voice broke — a confession of terror.
"What if... I hurt her? Without knowing it?"
Her body stiffened.
"What do you mean, Liam? Your illness doesn't take away your will. You're conscious — you know what you're doing."
Then, more hesitantly,
"Did you... hurt her?"
He shook his head violently, sobbing again against her neck.
"No. But I'm scared... and I'm scared of you. Of your betrayal."
The words came out in gasps, torn from his chest.
Camila brushed her fingers through his hair, her voice soft and steady.
"I'll never betray you. I'll stay by your side — always."
Sleep had long abandoned her, but she continued speaking, her voice trembling as she reached into a place she'd locked away for years.
"When I was a little girl, my father worked with the police.
But something happened — he left his job, started drinking. He turned into a man who hurt my mother with his words, his fists... with his doubts. She raised me alone while enduring everything."
Her voice cracked, the weight of buried pain pressing through. She had opened an old wound that never truly healed.
Her body trembled, but her eyes were cold — the eyes of a woman who no longer feared the ghost of her past.
"I won't stand with the police again, Liam. I won't break our bond."
Her fingers moved through his hair in slow, calming circles until his breath steadied.
In her warmth, he found his only refuge.