This was far worse than we’d thought.

As the forensic team swept our clothes for possible DNA samples, a large police van pulled up, effectively blocking off this section of the roundabout. We were instructed to head over, one by one, for a mandatory bite-check. Since I had made first contact with the suspect, I was up first.

An officer opened the rear doors of the van and gestured for me to step inside. The interior was tight, stripped down to essentials: a small laptop on a fold-out table, a single overhead light, and sleek panels embedded with sensors lining the walls.

“Undress,” the officer said curtly, shutting the rear door.

Stripping down to my boxers, I shivered slightly as the van’s cold metal floor pressed against my feet. The overhead light dimmed, and the sensor panels activated, emitting a soft blue glow that washed over the space.

“Stand still,” came a disembodied voice from the walls, smooth and mechanical.

The glow swept over me like a scanner, stopping briefly at my arms, neck, and chest before continuing downward. A soft chime followed, and the panels blinked green.

“Clear,” the voice confirmed.

The rear door opened, and the officer gave a nod. “You’re good to go, Officer C.”

I dressed quickly, feeling the eyes of the forensic team on me. Getting bitten was no joke—it meant carrying a special vial of anti-turning pills at all times. The pills could stave off the infection if taken immediately, but if you missed the window… well, there wasn’t much the doctors could do.

Stepping out of the van, I adjusted my coat and looked around. Jane was waiting nearby, her arms crossed.

“Leo and James are here,” she said. “You’ll go with them. I’ll stay and see what the lab techs find with the head.”

“Got it,” I replied, nodding. “Be careful.”

“You too,” she added, offering a faint smile.

As I approached the two officers leaning against a squad car, the sharp tang of cigarette smoke filled the air. Leo, the self-proclaimed Casanova of the force, flicked his cigarette. His tailored uniform and perfectly styled curls made him look more like a movie star than a cop.

“C!” he called out, his voice as smooth as ever. “My favorite officer with the unpronounceable name!”

“Leo,” I replied dryly, “my least favorite officer I haven’t yet strangled.”

James chuckled, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. His rugged face, marked by a crooked nose and a perpetual five o’clock shadow, contrasted sharply with Leo’s polished appearance. “So, it’s true? They found a head in the roundabout?”

“Yeah,” I said, exhaling. “I was the lucky one who found it.”

James frowned, his piercing blue eyes fixed on the scene in the distance. “I miss the old days—some vampire loses it, kills a bunch of people, and we track ‘em down before they finish dessert. None of this cloak-and-dagger crap.”

“Guess they’re getting smarter,” Leo quipped, flashing a grin as he tossed his cigarette. “Hop in, boys. I’m driving.”

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“Joy,” I muttered, climbing into the backseat. “You know where Jacob’s place is?”

“Sure do,” Leo said, sliding into the driver’s seat.

“Good. Let’s move.”

As the car roared to life, I leaned back, watching the rain blur the city’s neon lights into a kaleidoscope of color. My gut told me this night was far from over.

—

It looked like the forensics team had already finished most of their work. The door was still ajar, but a few members lingered inside, meticulously gathering any overlooked evidence. Leo, James, and I ducked under the crime tape and stepped into the small apartment.

The layout was cramped. A narrow corridor stretched straight ahead, leading to a modest kitchen. To the right of the kitchen was a door, which opened into a bedroom. Directly to our left, beside the entrance, was the bathroom cordoned off with crime scene tape. There didn’t seem to be a living room.

“These guys always miss something,” James grumbled, glancing at the forensics crew. “It’s a Preternatural Affairs case. They get lazy when we’re involved. Keep your eyes open.”

“Got it,” Leo replied, adjusting his gloves. “I’ll check the kitchen.”

“Bathroom’s mine,” James said, rolling his shoulders. “C, you’ve got the bedroom.”

“On it,” I muttered.

I entered the bedroom and slipped on a pair of gloves. The room was simple—a double bed pressed against the far wall, a small table beneath the window cluttered with books and a lone laptop, and a wardrobe spanning the entire left wall. The wardrobe's center panel featured a mirror, and an empty, grime-coated aquarium sat on top. Bits of uneaten fish food dotted the bottom.

Moving to the laptop, I lifted the lid. A burst of moaning filled the room, and the screen flickered to life. My face instantly heated as I found myself staring at an explicit pornographic video, complete with half-finished subtitles. I scrambled to mute the sound and closed the tab.

“Guess his girlfriend wasn’t lying,” I muttered under my breath. “Translating porn for a living. Job of the year.”

I sifted through his files but came up empty. His internet history was scrubbed, his notes folder barren. The only recently used program was a video editing suite.

Disappointed, I shut the laptop halfway and turned my attention to the wardrobe. Sliding it open, I found rows of clothes neatly hung—his on the right, his girlfriend’s on the left. I began checking the pockets carefully, tossing each item onto the bed.

“Nothing…” I murmured. “Cigarettes and lighters.”

Just as I was about to move on, a notification popped up on the laptop screen. Frowning, I reopened it.

A text box appeared:

“Looks like you’re not me. Or is it me, but the camera didn’t quite catch my face? Enter my name in the box.”

A second box appeared below. Warily, I typed Jacob Dun and hit enter.

“Nope. The correct answer is ‘Dun Jacob.’”

Another message followed:

“How did you get my laptop? Is it still at home?”

I hesitated before typing ‘still home’ and pressing enter.

“So… you’re not my girlfriend. You’re not me. Who are you?”

I typed ‘cop’ and hit enter.

“Shit… am I dead?”

I crossed my arms, my brows furrowing. The prompts weren’t from some advanced AI; this was clearly a preprogrammed series of messages. Jacob must’ve set it up, but whether it was paranoia or sheer eccentricity, I couldn’t tell.

I typed ‘yes’ and watched the next box appear.

“Was I… hanged from a wall? Like the others? So the plan failed, huh… poor kid.”

My stomach turned as I sat in the chair. Slowly, I typed ‘yes’ and pressed enter.

“So they got to me…” Another box appeared. “Would you like me to tell you a tale?”

Again, I typed ‘yes’ and hit enter.

But nothing happened.

“Hmm.” I mumbled. “I should let the others know about this…”