The human mind is a labyrinth, each twist and turn concealing truths even the owner might not recognize. In his pursuit of justice, Detective Roy Calhoun had spent years navigating these mental mazes—piecing together fragments of consciousness, revealing the hidden corridors where darkness lurked.

He had seen enough to know that murderers were creatures of habit. Every crime scene was a confession, every repeated act a fingerprint left on the psyche of the hunter. He had spent his career deciphering these grim signatures, peeling back the layers of deception until nothing remained but the raw truth.

But tonight, something was off.

Six silver coins—one from each victim—lay in a neat row on his desk, silent testimonies from mouths that would never speak again. Each one found tucked beneath a dead tongue, the calling card of a methodical serial killer.

Then came the seventh.

"Seven's a crowd," Roy muttered, a dry smirk tugging at his lips. "But at least they aren't loud."

Same coin. Same ritual. Same story. But this time, the victim was a cop.

Roy steepled his fingers, his tired eyes scanning the crime scene photographs. The flickering desk lamp cast long shadows across the evidence, distorting the features of the dead. Then, his gaze landed on the anomaly.

A marble.

Smooth, glassy, larger than a child's toy. Left on the victim's blood. A foreign object in a scene that should have been familiar. It didn't belong, and yet—it was there. A deliberate intrusion.

Sighing he rubbed his temples. Cases like these had a way of getting under his skin. They gnawed at the edges of reason, pulling him into their madness. His old partner used to say he had a habit of overthinking, of getting too deep.

That's when he'd crack a joke—something stupid, something out of place, just to keep himself from drowning.

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Because he was outstanding in his field.

A half-smirk tugged at his lips. It wasn't a great joke, but it kept the darkness at arm's length.

Roy flicked the marble with his finger—click, click, click. It rolled in a slow arc before settling, a perfect, glassy eye staring back at him.

The coins told him a story.

The marble? It asked him a question.

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. His office hummed with the faint buzz of an overhead light, the air stale with too much coffee and not enough sleep. He tapped his fingers against the desk, staring at the marble like it had personally insulted him.

"Alright, little glass eye... who the hell invited you?"

Patterns didn't break. Not on their own.

Someone—something—wanted him to see this.

Roy never ignored an invitation.

He pulled out his notepad, flipping through scribbled thoughts from previous cases. He jotted down a single question beneath them: Is the killer playing, or did someone new crash the party?

His lips quirked into a half-smile. "Well, well, well… looks like we've got ourselves a mystery guest. Guess I should roll out the red carpet."

With that, he stood, grabbed his coat, and left the marble exactly where it was.

---

Elsewhere, in another world entirely, a different story unfolded.

Golden light streamed through the window, wrapping the room in warmth. Tiny hands wavered in the air, chubby fingers grasping at nothing, balancing between gravity and sheer willpower.

John watched, breath caught between amusement and reverence. Across the carpet, his daughter, Julie, wobbled on uncertain legs, her wide eyes mirroring his own determination.

"Come on, Bean," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

In the doorway, Jane leaned against the frame, arms crossed, a knowing smile on her lips. She had seen this look before—the fierce protector, the devoted fool, utterly undone by a pair of tiny socks and a gummy grin.

Then it happened— A wobble. A sway. A heartbeat of stillness—

—and Julie stood.

No hands. No help.

John's heart stopped, then thundered to life. "That's my girl!"

Julie froze, her little legs trembling. But her father's voice wrapped around her like magic. Her lips curled wide, and the word tumbled out:

"Dada!"

Jane was already moving, scooping their daughter into her arms. Her laughter was bright and endless, filling the room with something sacred, something eternal.

"You did it, baby! You stood!"

But Julie wasn't finished. She wriggled free, her tiny legs kicking. "Down!" she commanded, small but absolute.

John chuckled, shaking his head. "Alright, show us what you've got."

Jane set her down, and Julie planted her feet, her face scrunched in fierce determination. She wobbled—but then, a step. Unsteady. Precious. Then another.

John's voice softened, thick with pride. "Look at you… unstoppable, Bean."

Julie stumbled—plop!—landing on her bottom. For a beat, silence.

Then, she giggled—a bright, bubbling sound that shattered the tension and filled the room with sunshine.

John fell back, hands over his face, helpless with laughter. "Oh, you're trouble already."

Jane brushed a stray curl from their daughter's forehead. "I swear, she gets that stubbornness from you."

John grinned, his voice low, tender. "Good. The world's tough out there." He leaned in, planting a soft kiss on Julie's head. "But she's already tougher."

Jane smirked. "So… do we call the grandparents or let them suffer from FOMO?"

John rubbed his chin, pretending to think. "Mmm... Nah. Let them suffer. We've got this memory all to ourselves."

Julie clapped her hands, as if sealing the verdict.

And in that living room—wrapped in laughter, love, and the triumph of tiny feet—time stood still.

No camera. No recording. Only the moment—eternal, perfect, and theirs alone.

The world outside could roar and burn. But here—

—here was peace.