Detective Elias Nurthea stood in the dim light of the diner, the air is thick with the metallic scent of blood and stale coffee. The overhead fluorescents flickered, casting erratic shadows over the ruined body of Milo Carter.

  The forensic team moved around him with quiet efficiency—snapping photos, dusting for prints, bagging evidence. The crime scene tech from earlier was crouched by the counter, his gloves stained red as he carefully examined the dried pool of blood near the victim’s head.

  "We’re running prints on everything," the tech muttered, snapping another photo. "No signs of forced entry. No struggle either. Bastard knew exactly what they were doing."

  Elias nodded, his gaze scanning the scene. The placement of the body, the precision of the wound—it all pointed to control. Cold, calculated.

  A uniformed officer approached, his notepad open. "We checked the security footage. Cameras were cut an hour before the murder. Whoever did this probably planned ahead."

  "Figures," Elias murmured. He crouched back down, thinking at the blood-soaked paper they had recovered from Milo’s empty socket. ‘Pay more attention next time.’ The words felt deliberate, mocking.

  "Who found the body?" Elias asked, straightening.

  "Cook from the morning shift," the officer replied. "Walked in at five, saw the mess, called it in. Poor guy’s still outside puking his guts out."

  Elias exhaled sharply. Another dead-end witness. By the time anyone had arrived, the killer was long gone.

  "What about the weapon?" he asked.

  "No weapon left behind," the tech answered. "Judging by the wound, we’re looking at a very sharp blade. Clean cuts, almost surgical. Whoever did this wasn’t just some random maniac. They knew how to handle a knife."

  That much was obvious. Elias rubbed his temple, feeling the weight of exhaustion creeping in. This case was already a mess, and they barely had anything to work with.

  "Let’s wait for the analysis of the note we found earlier," he said. "Maybe we get prints, maybe we don’t. But tell them to run it anyway."

  Elias exhaled, straightening his coat. "I'm going to check the surrounding area. See if anyone saw anything."

  The officer nodded. "Want me to send someone with you?"

  "No, just make sure everything here gets processed properly. I’ll head back to the station after."

  Elias stepped outside, the early morning chill biting at his skin. He scanned the street, walking past the yellow tape. Most buildings were closed, their windows dark, but a few had signs of life—a gas station, a convenience store, a lone taxi driver sipping coffee. The city never truly slept, but at this hour, it felt eerily close.

  He spent the next hour questioning whoever was around. Some hadn’t been outside at all, some had seen nothing. A night worker at the gas station recalled hearing a sound—like a muffled yelp—but assumed it was some stray animal or late-night drunk. Another man, a delivery driver, mentioned seeing a shadowy figure walking down the road, hood up, hands in pockets, but couldn't give details. The figure had moved strangely—not in a hurry, yet with purpose, as if they already knew the path by heart.

  Elias pressed further, showing them a picture of the victim. "This is Milo Carter. He was murdered inside that diner last night. Anything at all you remember could help."

  The night worker hesitated, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I'm sorry officer, all I heard was a brief yelp, I just thought it was someone drunk or homeless. You see a lot of that around here."

  Elias turned to the delivery driver. "What about you? Anything odd?"

  The man ran a hand through his hair, his brow furrowing. "Now that I think about it, the guy moved weird. Real slow, deliberate. Not in a rush, but... like he knew exactly where he was going. Gave me a bad feeling."

  "Weird how?" Elias pressed. "Like he was looking around, nervous? Or just... unnatural?"

  The man shook his head. "No, not nervous. Just... off. Too steady. Too sure. Like he wasn’t even checking his surroundings, like he already knew what was gonna happen."

  Elias narrowed his eyes. "Was that when he was going in or coming out of the diner?"

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  "Coming out," the man confirmed. He turned slightly, pointing down the road. "I saw him leaving the diner, walking that way. Didn’t think much of it at the time, just another late-night drifter."

  Elias nodded, jotting down notes, then exhaled slowly. "Alright, thanks for your time."

  The two men nodded, the delivery driver still glancing uneasily down the street as if expecting the shadowy figure to reappear. Elias turned on his heel, heading toward the direction the man had pointed. His shoes tapped against the cracked pavement as he moved past dimly lit storefronts and shuttered businesses, scanning for any sign of disturbance—discarded clothing, footprints, anything that might hint at where the figure had gone.

  But the streets gave him nothing. Just more silence, more emptiness. Just another dead end.

  He sighed, glancing around. A streetlamp flickered overhead, casting brief bursts of light onto the damp pavement. The hum of a distant radio echoed from the gas station.

  With a tired sigh, he rubbed the back of his neck and made his way back to his car, the weight of frustration settling deep in his chest.

  The weight of the night pressed down on him. This was what haunted him the most—not just the crime itself, but the emptiness surrounding it. A shadow slipping through the night, leaving only horror behind.

  Frustrated, Elias returned to the station, rubbing his tired eyes. The weight of exhaustion pressed down on him, each step heavier than the last. The station was quieter at this hour, the usual hum of ringing phones and chatter reduced to a low murmur. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting a dull glow over the room.

  Inside, his partner, Detective Rowan Vale, sat at his desk, nursing a headache and a bottle of aspirin. Papers were scattered in front of him, some crumpled at the edges, others half-filled with scribbled notes. He looked up as Elias entered, squinting slightly. "You look like shit."

  Elias exhaled through his nose, tossing his coat onto the back of his chair before sinking into it. "Yeah? Shit is an understatement. I feel worse. And also, you hear about the case?"

  "Yeah. Sorry I wasn’t there. My head was killing me." Rowan sat up, tossing a notepad onto the desk. "Read the report. Sounds bad."

  "Bad doesn’t even cover it." Elias leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "Whoever did this, They were making sure we knew it. The bastard even left a note in the guy’s empty socket. 'Pay more attention next time.'

  A knock on the door interrupted them before Rowan could respond. A fellow investigator stepped in, a folder in hand. "Background check on the victim just came through," he announced, setting the folder on Elias’s desk. "You’re gonna want to see this."

  Elias flipped it open, his eyes scanning the pages. His expression darkened. "Milo Carter filed a report a week ago," he muttered. "Claimed he saw something—something off. Thought he was being watched. He was convinced, but the authorities brushed him off, figured he was just another paranoid guy rambling about shadows."

  Rowan leaned in, eyebrows furrowed. "Paranoid, huh? And now he’s dead. Seems like he wasn’t imagining things after all."

  Elias exhaled, tapping a finger against the folder. "What did he see? That report should have details. Maybe it’s connected."

  Rowan nodded, flipping a page. "Says here he reported ‘unusual figures lurking near his apartment’ multiple times. Vague descriptions. Tall. Moved strangely. Never left a trace. Cops did a quick sweep, found nothing, and chalked it up to paranoia."

  Elias leaned back, jaw tightening. "And now he ends up murdered, his eyes ripped out, and a message left behind."

  Rowan ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in his voice. "None of this makes sense. A guy reports feeling watched, gets dismissed as paranoid, and a week later, he's dead? What the fuck are we dealing with here?"

  Before Elias could respond, another knock at the front desk echoed through the station. A uniformed officer poked his head into the room. "Detectives, there's a package for you. Came in a few minutes ago. Addressed to the investigative team."

  Elias and Rowan exchanged wary glances before standing. The officer led them to the reception area, where a plain brown package sat atop the counter. No return address. No markings. Just their names scrawled in ink. The air felt heavier, as if the station itself was holding its breath.

  Elias reached for a pair of gloves, slipping them on before carefully slicing the tape open. He hesitated for just a second before lifting the lid—and his stomach twisted violently.

  Inside the box sat a glass jar filled with a viscous, epoxy-like liquid. Suspended within it, unmistakable even in the harsh artificial lighting, was a single human eye. The iris, lifeless and clouded, seemed to stare right through them, an eerie mockery of sight.

  Rowan inhaled sharply. "Fucking Hell."

  The jar sat unnervingly still, its contents perfectly preserved. Something about it felt ritualistic, methodical—too calculated to be the work of a reckless killer. Elias swallowed hard, forcing himself to look past the grotesque display.

  At the bottom of the jar, barely visible through the murky liquid, was a note. The writing, neat and deliberate, sent a slow, creeping chill down Elias’s spine.

  "Do you still not see it?"

  -intermission-

  Morning arrived with an eerie stillness, but the city never felt clean. The streets carried the damp scent of smoke, mixing with the dull glow of neon signs that refused to fade in the daylight.

  Ethan, the delivery driver who had spoken to the police about the figure outside the diner, walked briskly down an empty alley. His shift had ended an hour ago, yet unease clung to him. He told himself over and over that the figure he saw that night meant nothing. Just another late-night drifter.

  But now, as he retraced his steps in the dim alley, doubt crept in. Had he brushed past something far worse than he realized? Had he seen something—someone—he wasn’t supposed to?

  His footsteps echoed against the walls, too loud in the silence. He glanced over his shoulder. Nothing. Just the flicker of a busted streetlight.

  Then—a sound. Soft. Deliberate. A step heavier than his own.

  Ethan’s pulse quickened. He wasn’t the type to scare easily, but ever since the murder at the diner, paranoia had settled in his bones. He picked up his pace, pushing the feeling down. He just needed to get home.

  He turned a corner.

  For a brief second, the streetlight lit up a figure ahead.

  Standing perfectly still...

  Watching...