Akshran and Thawyne approached the modest dwelling of one of the victim's families. While Thawyne's eyes darted warily around the village, Akshran moved steadily forward, hands in his pockets, ignoring the fearful, suspicious glances cast their way by the villagers. They were strangers here, a fact made obvious by the alert expressions of everyone who saw them pass.

"So, this is the place?" Akshran asked, his gaze fixed on the humble, slightly worn house before them. It had a simple gate, behind which stood an older man with intense, guarded eyes, studying them both as though they were intruders.

"Leave. Now," the man barked, his tone firm, almost desperate. His body language was guarded, defensive—a man stretched to his breaking point. His unkempt hair, tinged with gray, added to the impression of someone aged prematurely by grief and anger.

"This is why I warned you it wasn't wise to come here," muttered Thawyne, his voice a mixture of reluctance and caution. His gaze flicked nervously around, noting the curious faces peeking from windows, barely hidden behind curtains. "The guy went off the deep end after what happened to his daughter. Now he can't stand anyone, least of all strangers."

'Acute grief response. Attachment-driven anger. Mistrust of outsiders,' Akshran noted internally, cataloging the man's stance and expressions. 'Strong indicators of unresolved trauma.'

Taking a deliberate step forward, Akshran observed the man's reaction—a clenched fist, his stance solidifying as he raised his arm in what could only be described as a defiant, confrontational gesture. 'Clenched fists, defensive posture—strong signs of hypervigilance and paranoia,' he thought.

The man's fist struck hard, catching Akshran across the face, the impact swift and brutal. "I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE!" he yelled, his voice raw with barely contained emotion.

As Akshran regained his balance, brushing off the blow, Thawyne was already muttering, "See? The guy's totally crazy; we should just leave." He took a step back, eyeing the man warily.

"No," Akshran replied calmly, "he's not 'crazy.' This is anger transference."

"Anger what?" Thawyne asked, his confusion apparent.

"Anger transference," Akshran clarified, "is a psychological mechanism. It allows someone to redirect their overwhelming grief and helplessness onto an 'outsider'—often a figure they associate with authority, like law enforcement." He dusted his clothes, studying the man's trembling frame. "He's not insane. He's lost, and this anger is the only way he can cope."

Thawyne raised an eyebrow, glancing at the man. "Well, he definitely needs help. That's obvious."

"Yes, and he also likely has survivor's guilt," Akshran said quietly, his gaze still fixed on the grieving father. "Losing a loved one under violent circumstances can be emotionally catastrophic, especially when one feels responsible in any way."

Turning to the sheriff, who had quietly observed from a few steps behind, Akshran spoke with uncharacteristic gravity. "After this case is closed, make sure this man and anyone close to him receives the help they need."

The sheriff's brows furrowed as Akshran continued, his voice low but firm. "If unaddressed, survivor's guilt festers…"

"It can lead to extreme self-punishment, isolation, and behaviors far more destructive than what we're seeing now. He's showing the early signs."

Akshran stepped closer to the sheriff and spoke in a confidential tone. "I'm going inside," he said, glancing at the house.

Thawyne's jaw tightened as he whispered urgently, "Are you crazy? If you antagonize him, he'll shut down, and we'll lose any chance of talking to the others. They'll fear and distrust us even more."

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"Trust me," Akshran replied, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Just watch."

Positioning himself before the gate, Akshran studied the man's form—the tension in his shoulders, the slight tremor in his hands, signs of a man hanging by a thread. His entire posture screamed of a soul trapped in torment, haunted by loss and consumed by an overwhelming need for answers.

"You're guarding this place like the killer might come back," Akshran said, his tone steady yet laced with an edge, implying that the house—and the father himself—could hold valuable secrets or that the killer might indeed be lurking, watching.

The father's eyes narrowed, the spark of paranoia Akshran hoped for flaring visibly.

"I'm not here to tell you how to feel," Akshran continued, his voice softer now, almost reflective. "Nor can I even begin to imagine your loss." He paused, letting the weight of his words hang in the air. "But I do know what it's like to lose the only person who matters."

The statement lingered, an unspoken bond forming as the father's expression softened just slightly, perhaps finding in Akshran a shared grief or a flicker of understanding.

Akshran leaned closer, his voice barely a murmur. "The sheriff, the villagers—they have no idea what you'd be willing to do for justice. But I do." His gaze held the father's with steely resolve. "I can help you. But I need to know everything about that night."

The father's fist slowly unclenched, his hand hovering near the latch. His eyes flickered with mistrust, then with something softer, almost pleading. For a tense moment, he seemed to struggle, caught between his fear and his need for answers. His hand lingered on the latch, knuckles white, before he finally sighed and stepped back, letting Akshran inside.

Thawyne's jaw tightened, his fingers tapping against his holster as he watched Akshran speak to the grieving man with such calm authority. To him, the words sounded clinical, even invasive, but he couldn't deny the father's reaction—something in Akshran's tone had managed to break through.

Once inside, Akshran didn't rush; he let the man's own paranoia and mistrust linger, giving him a reason to open up.

"You know as well as I do," Akshran began, glancing around the modest, dimly lit room, "that killers rarely work alone. Whoever did this… they could be close. Maybe even one of your neighbors." He let the suggestion sit, watching the father's face for any trace of recognition.

The father's face darkened as he muttered under his breath, mentioning villagers he suspected, people he'd begun to mistrust even before the tragedy. Akshran's mind sharpened, silently gathering each word, each expression, each resentment that surfaced.

Moving quietly around the room, Akshran examined every inch of the house—the faded walls, cluttered shelves, and the way the man's gaze followed him. His search led him to a drawer containing a torn photograph, partially concealed beneath a stack of papers.

The photo featured the father, his daughter, and several villagers at a community gathering. Several faces were scratched out, some cut away entirely.

'A symbol of buried resentment,' Akshran mused, 'possibly toward those he blames for failing to protect his daughter or who were involved with her in ways he found suspicious.'

He dug deeper, finding a small, worn journal with scribbled entries filled with desperate, bitter rants. Flipping through, he noticed passages where the father documented his daughter's recent behavior, his growing fears, and his suspicion that people around them were somehow involved in her tragedy.

'This journal could be a key to understanding his deteriorating mental state,' Akshran thought, noting how paranoia seemed to cloud his perception of everyone in the village.

Then he spotted something else—a wrinkled piece of paper tucked at the bottom of a drawer. It was a crude, childlike drawing made by his daughter.The image showed herself, her father, and a dark figure with crossed-out eyes looming in the background, as if drawn with trembling hands. Beneath it, a scribbled caption read, "Stay away… it's watching us."

The paper's creases and wear suggested it had been handled repeatedly, its importance almost sacred.

"My daughter drew that," came the father's voice behind him, brittle and filled with sorrow. His eyes were rimmed red, hollow from sleepless nights and grief.

"She made it a day before… before it happened," he whispered, his voice breaking.

Akshran turned to face him, his gaze steady yet softened by an understanding few could offer.

"She told me she heard footsteps following her. But whenever she looked back… all she saw was a doll."

The father's shoulders shook as he dropped to his knees, his hands clutching at Akshran's coat in desperation. Tears spilled down his face, streaking the dusty floor.

"Please," he choked, his voice barely a whisper, "please… find who did this to her."

Akshran's expression softened only slightly, revealing a trace of empathy as he helped the man to his feet. With a reassuring hand on the father's shoulder, he spoke quietly.

"I will," he promised, his voice calm, steady, and filled with conviction.

He knew the path ahead would be dark and twisted—but he was resolved to see it through. As he glanced at the dark figure in the drawing one last time, its crossed-out eyes seemed to stare back, mocking him in silence. Whoever did this… they would not stay hidden for long.