His mental simulation vision dissolved, the scene of the dancing killer slipping away through the open door. The moment he blinked back to reality, the door before him swung open, revealing a young man with a face so naturally admirable it could have belonged to a film star. A stark contrast to the rugged, world-worn Colhoin.... Colhun.... Colhoun,ah yes Colhoun who had long since passed his fortieth year.

Eric Whitmore, the newly appointed assistant, stood before him, crisp in uniform, sharp-eyed, and exuding an eagerness that Colhoun found exhausting. A useful prick, the force had called him. A useless one, in Colhoun's book.

"Find anything?" Eric asked, stepping aside.

Colhoun grunted. "Nothing worth a damn. You?"

Eric shook his head. "Coin came back clean. No prints, no markings. Just old currency from different years." He shrugged. "Maybe the killer's a coin collector."

Colhoun exhaled sharply. The coins had been the only thing that made sense—until they didn't. A calling card, maybe. Or a taunt. Now? They were just dead weight.

That only left them with one last place.

---

Colhoun crouched, snapping on a pair of gloves recreating the scenario.

"What do you think?" Eric asked, shifting on his feet.

Colhoun turned the marble in his fingers, watching the faint reflection of the streetlight skitter across its surface.

"I think you shouldwear less perfume," he murmured, "and whoever left this wanted us to find it."

Eric frowned. "You mean the killer?"

Colhoun shook his head. "No. The killer leaves coins. This?" He held the marble up. "This is someone else."

Eric exhaled. "So we've got two players in this game… or some random kid threw it as high as he could, and here it is."

Colhoun shot him a look.

Eric grinned. "Hey, I am considering all possibilities."

Colhoun pocketed the marble. "Or more."

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

The wind picked up, carrying faint laughter from the city beyond. Normal people in a normal world, unaware of the darkness lurking beneath their feet.

Eric clicked on his flashlight. "We should sweep the perimeter. See if there's anything else."

Colhoun waved a hand. "Knock yourself out, kid."

They moved in silence, scanning the ground, the dumpster, the alley walls. The single streetlight flickered weakly, like it was trying to opt out of the scene.

Eric crouched near a pile of old newspapers and trash, brushing aside a layer of dirt. He paused. "Something's here."

Colhoun walked over as Eric pulled out a folded strip of paper, wedged under a broken brick. Faded ink. Jagged handwriting.

Good boy.

Eric frowned. "What the hell does that mean?"

Colhoun ran his thumb over the paper. It wasn't from a book. Wasn't a receipt. This was deliberate.

"A message," he muttered.

Eric leaned in. "For who? Us? The killer?"

Colhoun let out a dry chuckle. "Or the one who left the marble."

Eric exhaled. "I don't like this. It's messy. A killer who leaves coins, another player dropping a marble, now cryptic notes? Feels like we're getting dragged into something bigger."

Colhoun stuffed the note into his coat. "You don't know the half of it."

They kept moving, circling back toward the dumpster. The dirt was disturbed—not just from wind and weather. Colhoun crouched, running his fingers lightly over the ground. A faint indentation—a shoe print. Mostly erased.

"Got something."

Eric leaned in. "Boot?"

Colhoun studied it. "Too narrow. Dress shoe. Someone careful. Someone who doesn't belong here."

Eric scratched his head. "killer?"

Colhoun shook his head. "No. Coin guy? He's a creature of habit. This feels different."

Eric let out a breath. "So we've got a third player."

Colhoun stood, brushing off his hands. "Looks that way."

The wind whistled, rattling through the lot. A print, a note, a marble—pieces of a puzzle with no edges, no clear picture. But Colhoun had been in this game long enough to know one thing:

When you find a thread, you pull.

And you keep pulling.

As they stepped back into the city lights, Eric glanced over. "So, uh… you ever solve a case that wasn't weird as hell?"

Colhoun smirked. "Once. Guy stole a cow."

"…And?"

"Turned out to be his cow. Just got drunk and forgot where he parked it."

Eric blinked. "Cows don't park."

Colhoun grinned. "Tell that to the guy. He swore it was right there before it wandered off."

Eric shook his head. "I'm starting to think the real horror here is your sense of humor."

"Stick around, kid," Colhoun said, lighting a cigarette. "It gets worse."

They weren't just chasing shadows.

They were stepping into them.

---

The world runs on a simple truth: if you do something often enough without setting anything on fire, people will start calling you an expert. It doesn't matter if the task is as simple as pressing the same three buttons in an office or nodding thoughtfully in meetings—repetition breeds confidence, and confidence breeds undeserved promotions. One day, you figure out how to fix a printer jam, and the next thing you know, you're the "tech guy," despite your only real skill being the ability to yank out a crumpled paper without crying. Before long, people are asking you for stock market advice, relationship counseling, and possibly open-heart surgery, all because you once managed to unfreeze an Excel sheet.

Jason moved through his morning routine, but something was off. His limbs felt heavier, his grip weaker—muscles that had once thrummed with quiet power now sluggish, unresponsive. From the moment he woke up, a strange weakness clung to him—like his newfound strength had found a lover and abandoned him overnight.

"Something has hit its expiry date" jason mused.

In the background, his sister was watching the news, her face scrunched in concern. The screen flashed reports of escalating gang wars, a rising death toll painting the city in blood. Jason barely paid attention. Another day, another cycle.

As he stepped out into yet another cursed weekday, his only solace was shipping Arnon and Katherine—something Arnon despised to his core.

By late evening, their team's infamous short fuse called for an urgent meeting, announcing something new.