Cigarette butts pile up inside the ashtray, one layer over another, as if they are counting hours suspended between the tightness in my chest and the tension of the cold room.
Smoke threads dance before me like a heavy cloud, filling the emptiness of the office with the suffocating scent of tobacco. It chokes more than it soothes.
My body sinks into the chair, as though the weight of the truth I am reading drags me backward.
Papers lie scattered, sharp lines of light cutting across them, and my mind is completely stalled.
Liam's file.
The psychological report Camila handed to me hours ago.
I still cannot comprehend how she gave it to me after all her previous attempts at concealment.
My eyes move slowly across the lines, word by word,
as if every letter carves a new mark inside my head.
"Liam Rodham — suffers from obsessive attachment.
A deep fear of loss.
Extreme sensitivity to any form of distance or pressure.
Tends to interpret even the smallest act as betrayal.
With a probability of rage episodes that detach him from reality."
My gaze froze for seconds.
My chest contracted into a slow breath, and my hand trembled at the edge of the paper.
Obsessive attachment?
Fear of abandonment?
Episodes without memory?
This… opens an entirely different door.
I stubbed my cigarette out harshly in the ashtray, drawing uneven breaths as my fingers threaded through my hair, searching for a logic that refused to exist.
Details of Rosalina's investigation suddenly flooded my mind, relentlessly, as if they were aligning with Liam's case without my consent.
The moment I mentioned the name Robin Lancaster in front of him.
His expression did not change.
He did not flinch.
He did not collapse.
He already knew.
As if his mother's betrayal of his father had been a familiar truth in his mind long before I ever spoke it aloud.
My hand shook nervously as I searched beneath the heap of papers, pulling out Robin's file.
Seven stab wounds.
The same calm.
The same body surrendered without resistance.
The same sealed door. No break-in. No forced entry. No signs of struggle.
And Rosalina died the same way…
less than ten days ago.
I lifted my head slowly, as though the air itself had grown heavier than I could bear.
If Liam sees betrayal this way…
If he carries this fear, this rage, this feral fragility…
Then did he kill those who betrayed him?
Or was he only trying not to be left alone?
I leaned back, cracking my fingers roughly.
My eyes drifted to the window overlooking the city's restless lights.
My gaze landed on Max, stretched out on the couch, his arm covering his eyes.
His pale face looked as if all the blood had drained from it. Defeated features.
My mind recalled the old image of Max —
the man who laughed loudly, throwing his stupid jokes at me just to force a smile out of me.
The man who turned every wound into sarcasm and pretended he was fine.
But since that moment —
since he saw her in the hospital room — everything shattered all over again.
His old tones returned: anger, regret, fear, jealousy, guilt. All of them reunited to challenge what remained of his composure.
As if seeing his wife was not a moment…
but a stab.
A stab still bleeding.
I never felt comfortable with that woman. Even though she was his neighbor and childhood love, she was one of those weak souls who live trapped inside the role of the victim.
I muttered under my breath as I called out to wake Max.
He mumbled, shifting his arm away from his eyes with a slight jolt, revealing bloodshot eyes.
"Go home, Max. Get some rest. There's nothing new in the case."
He nodded, rising heavily, grabbing his thick coat. Slow, dragging steps until the office door closed behind him.
Max's POV
I wrapped my coat tightly around myself, shielding against the cold air as I exited the police station.
Despite the weight in my head craving sleep, the cold slapped my face awake. I did not want to go home. Its atmosphere pressed heavily on my chest.
I didn't know where my feet were taking me through alleys and streets beneath a sky consumed by darkness.
I buried my hands in my coat pockets, bracing against the shivering wind. I lost track of time — of people and their passing lives.
The circles of thought in my mind finally stopped, exhausted by life. Enough of the tangled threads of sleepless nights.
My inner voice drowned out everything else.
I wasn't some Romeo lost in love, yet here I was.
I couldn't focus on work.
I couldn't take care of myself.
All I wanted to know was: why?
I'm not ashamed of my love for her — my wife, my childhood sweetheart. But she left me. She left without a single word.
She shattered my pride and my manhood in a way that made me disgusted with her.
Was I cruel to her? Did I hurt her? How — when I was the one trying to gather her broken pieces while bleeding myself?
It wasn't my fault.
Why am I always the one who must sacrifice in our relationship?
It wasn't my fault.
It was our child.
I snapped out of my thoughts when my feet froze on unfamiliar ground. I must have been lost in my head long enough for daylight to fade completely.
My eyes scanned the area, trying to understand where I was. Crumbling buildings, narrow dark alleys.
One of San Francisco's many neighborhoods infested with drugs and gangs.
I turned to leave quickly before anyone noticed I didn't belong.
Just as I stepped back, the sound came from that cursed device that haunts my nightmares.
The radio.
A voice blared through it, reporting a nearby apartment where a major drug exchange was about to take place. Backup units would arrive in five minutes.
A stupid thought crossed my mind — to go there alone before backup arrived.
Especially when my appearance alone screamed outsider, not law enforcement, in a dark isolated place crawling with illegal activity.
Yet I found myself running. Running without pause, the air the only thing resisting my motion.
I lost control the moment I heard the apartment owner's name over the radio.
"Alynn Ford."
Alynn?
Again, Alynn.
Fate insisted on throwing her in front of me, again and again.
When I reached the apartment, the door was open. A foul stench hit my face.
Clothes scattered across the floor. Empty drug packets beside canned food. Trash swarming with flies and insects, half-decayed.
I found her there — Alynn — amid the filth.
My body jolted in terror as I dropped to my knees beside her lifeless-looking body sprawled on the couch.
Half-naked.
"Alynn… who did this to you? Who did this? I swear I'll rip his insides out."
Her eyes couldn't lift to meet mine. She weakly raised her hand, murmuring in a broken voice:
"If… if you're a client… then leave. I can't right now."
My body went rigid.
Client?
Client for drugs… right?
Of course. It had to be that.
I clenched my fists in rage — at her and for her.
There was no time. Backup was approaching.
I shook her frail body, trying to get any words out of her. Where are the drugs? Where?
I moved back and forth, frantically searching through the filth.
A black bag beside a trash pile — not even hidden.
When I opened it, it was filled with the newest drugs on the market. A single dose enough to paralyze your limbs.
I grabbed the bag and ran out. I didn't know where to dump this disaster. One second of hesitation could cost me my life and my career.
My heart stopped.
The world dimmed.
A hand landed on my shoulder.
"What do you think you're doing?"
I exhaled sharply. A massive man stood before me, surrounded by others like him. Suspicious looks. Weapons they didn't even bother hiding.
He snatched the bag, checking its contents.
"So you're one of that bitch Alynn's clients? You think you can steal what belongs to me?"
Clients. Again.
I lunged at him. "Clients? What clients? How do you know Alynn?"
Shock after shock as I saw the mockery in their eyes.
"You think you're her only client? I'm her employer."
A laugh revealed broken yellow teeth, adding filth to filth.
"Her employer at what?"
"Are you stupid or just a child who hasn't grown up yet? Poor neighborhood, a worn-out addict woman — what do you think she does? A doctor healing wounds? She sells her body."
That was when I lost control.
I grabbed him by the collar and slammed his head into the wall.
Seconds later, the situation reversed. I was beneath the boots of five men.
Police sirens wailed.
End of the Day — Ethan's House
Ethan sat beneath dim yellow light, unaware of what was happening to his friend.
He sighed deeply, holding a photograph of Camila.
Her image — still unable to understand why he found it in Liam's apartment, or why Liam trusted her enough to give her a key.
He took a sip of wine, staring at the photo as if it might answer him if he looked long enough.
Why Camila?
Why does every path end with her?
Why, whenever a man collapses, Camila is standing behind him —
like a puppeteer pulling strings behind the curtain.
He flipped the photo face down on the table.
He didn't want to see her.
And he didn't want to be far from her.
But he would find a way to unravel her.
"What?!"
Max's call from the police station snapped him out of his thoughts. Security had found Max violating protocol, beating a criminal nearly to disability.
"I'm coming."
He grabbed his keys and coat in a rush.
The wooden door slammed shut behind him.