The holographic display flickered, casting a pale glow over the dimly lit briefing room. The air smelled of stale coffee, overheated processors and the faint trace of cigarette smoke lingering in the fibers of the walls.

Detective Inspector Lance stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, his sharp blue eyes scanning the team. He had the look of a man who had seen too many bodies, too many unanswered questions—a face lined with subtle tension, the permanent five o'clock shadow making him appear even more worn. His short, dark hair was slightly unkempt, as if he hadn't slept properly in days. The collar of his long coat was turned up against the chill of the room, giving him the air of someone constantly on guard.

He tapped the display.

A series of crime scene photos filled the screen. Bodies sprawled in dark alleys, luxury apartments, train stations. Different ages. Different backgrounds. Different methods of death. But one thing was clear—they shouldn't be dead.

He felt it in his gut.

"Alright," Lance said, voice steady. "Let's get started."

The team sat around the table, each of them a distinct presence in the cold, humming glow of the holograms.

Sarge leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his broad chest, his muscular frame barely fitting into the seat. His dark skin was weathered from years on the force, and his short-cropped silver hair was a stark contrast to the deep-set exhaustion in his brown eyes. A small scar ran down his right cheek, a reminder of a case gone bad, but he never spoke about it.

He exhaled through his nose, adjusting the sleeves of his worn leather jacket, the kind of jacket that had seen more years than most rookies on the force.

"Let me guess," he grunted. "Another case of some guy who got tired of the world and took a swan dive?"

Agent Maya Carter shot him a sharp look, frustration flashing in her hazel eyes. She had a lean, athletic build, her medium length auburn hair tied neatly, but a few loose strands always escaped, framing her sharply defined face. She looked young, too young to have already seen the things she had, but there was an intensity in her expression — a hunger to prove herself.

Her firm posture, the way her fingers drummed against the table, suggested she was ready to take on anything.

"You don't think something's off about this?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Sarge shrugged. "I think people get pushed too hard in this city. It's not exactly a paradise."

A snort came from behind a glowing tablet screen.

Cursor sat cross-legged in his chair, his wiry frame draped in an oversized hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, revealing a set of thin, dexterous hands that never stopped moving. His dark brown skin was partially illuminated by the glow of his device, reflecting in the round, tinted cyber-glasses perched on his nose — glasses that doubled as an advanced data interface.

He had the look of someone who thrived in neon-lit rooms, hunched over screens at 3 AM, fueled by caffeine and sheer obsession. His curly black hair was perpetually tousled, and his grin had just the right amount of mischief to suggest he enjoyed causing trouble more than solving it.

"No kidding, Sarge. You wanna pay my subscription fee for oxygen credits next month? Maybe a nice corporate dining plan too?"

"Shut up, Cursor."

Cursor smirked and went back to his rapid-fire hacking.

Lance tapped the display again. A new set of crime scene photos filled the screen.

A businessman in a high-rise office, sprawled across his desk—cyanide capsule in his hand.A street vendor, found in his rented storage unit, a noose tightening around his neck.A corporate lawyer, jumping from a skyscraper rooftop, his body shattering against a luxury car below.

Different social classes. Professions.

Different methods of death.

But one common factor.

"These are just three of the cases," Lance said, his voice steady but edged. "High-profile suicides. No direct connection between them. No financial struggles. No prior signs of severe depression. Yet, every single one of them... died by their own hand."

A silence settled over the room.

"Could be copycats," Sarge muttered.

Maya shook her head. "We've looked into that. There's no indication any of these people knew each other, followed the same forums, or even had a shared history. These suicides... they don't feel like suicides."

A new image filled the screen as he tapped the display once more.

It was Inspector Raq's body.

Lance is gripping his coffee too tightly, eyes distant. Maya notices. "You okay, boss?" He doesn't answer — he just taps the screen.

"He's one of us," Lance said, voice firm. "He was investigating these suicides before he died. I don't believe in coincidences."

Cursor frowned, his usual smirk disappearing. "So... what exactly was he looking into?"Lance turned to Maya. She flipped through her notes, straightening her posture. "He was following one of the cases."

"And... yesterday, we have another" Lance said, his voice steady as he tapped the screen once again. A face of a pale looking woman and a name appeared.

Eleanor Vance.

Maya straightened, her lips parting slightly as she took in the image.Eleanor Vance—the struggling artist who never quite made it—was found in her tiny, cluttered apartment, surrounded by unfinished paintings.

Cause of death? An overdose. A mix of illicit sedatives and experimental pharmaceuticals—a combination that shouldn't have been available to her.

Cursor adjusted his glasses, frowning. "That's an expensive cocktail of drugs for someone who was barely making rent."

Lance nodded. "Exactly. And it wasn't a casual accident. Every pill was deliberately swallowed, one by one."

Maya's fingers curled slightly against the table. "She wanted to go through with it."

An artist. Another victim.

"She painted something before she died," Maya continued. "Something... disturbing."

Lance's jaw tightened, Maya had done her homework. "Then let's go see it for ourselves."