A pale morning sun filtered weakly through the grey skyline of Paris. But the warmth didn't reach Rue Valencienne.
The crime scene was already cordoned off. Police vans parked like vultures, and uniformed officers moved with stiff dread across the small residential block. The air smelled like burnt metal and cheap detergent. Reporters gathered behind barriers, buzzing like flies.
Brendon and Christopher stepped out of their vehicle, greeted by the low chatter of cops and the distant blare of car horns. Brendon crushed the last of his cigarette under his heel.
"Isn't it the same... " Christopher murmured.
Brendon nodded once, his expression locked.
The family of four, killed overnight. The exact same family Brendon and Christopher had unknowingly walked past yesterday. He remembered the little boy arranging spoons. The mother's hum. The dog barking through a cracked window.
Now, all dead.
Detective Zuekh, coat flapping in the cold wind, met them near the threshold. He looked grimmer than usual.
"Mr. Wolf. Christopher. Another day, another horror," he said without warmth. "This one's… grotesque."
"Let's see that," Brendon said.
---
The living room was bathed in blue forensic lights. The bodies were carefully covered in white sheets, except for the mother's, which remained half-exposed for examination.
The couch was soaked in blood. The rug — ruined.
"There are no signs of forced entry," said Zuekh, holding a small notepad. "No alarms were tripped. Nothing stolen. It's like the killer just... walked in and left a message written in death."
Christopher looked pale. "All four victims?"
"Dead," Zuekh confirmed. "The parents and the children. Strangled. No eyes. Very little defensive wounds. No screams were even reported that time."
Brendon took slow steps around the room, sniffing softly, scanning. Then he paused near the mailbox slot by the door.
He bent down.
There, neatly folded under the baseboard, was a typed note — just like the others.
Zuekh leaned over. "We were about to collect that."
Brendon opened it carefully.
> "No one remembers the war they caused… until the ghosts start screaming."
— The Bleeding Eye
"Same typewriter print. Same lack of fingerprints. Ink still fresh," Brendon muttered.
"It's quite taunting," said Christopher, looking around. "It's not just about murder anymore — it's about making a statement."
"Making sure we see this," Brendon added.
---
Once the bodies were taken, the blood marked, and the photos cataloged, the three returned to Zuekh's temporary operations tent just a block from the house. Coffee steamed from plastic cups. Brendon took a seat in the corner, silently watching.
He noticed it then. Something off.
Zuekh's tone as he gave orders to his officers — sharp, clipped, overly authoritative when speaking to antho personnel.
When a feline-hybrid forensics officer handed over new samples, Zuekh barely acknowledged her presence with eye contact, instead muttering a cold, "Just leave it."
Later, when speaking to Christopher and Brendon, he shifted into professional mode, but something under the surface churned. His gaze toward Brendon never softened. It's like judging him.
As they walked back toward the station, Christopher mentioned it.
"You think Zuekh's been sleeping?" he asked. "He's usually cold, but today… I don't know. Something's tightened up."
Brendon didn't respond immediately.
But he'd noticed too.
---
Back at the Central District Police Station, in one of the investigation rooms, the trio sat down again, trying to organize the chaos of their leads.
Christopher tapped his pen on the desk. "So far, we've got a killer who leaves no prints, no footprints, and knows how to get in and out unnoticed. But Banik said the clothes used are not commercially available. Which means this guy isn't living conventionally."
Brendon looked at Zuekh. "You've been running the human-side intel, right? Anything your sources turned up?"
Zuekh's eyes flicked to Brendon. "Nothing worth chasing yet."
Brendon's ears twitched slightly. "No sightings? No anomalies? No recent parolees with strangulation records?"
"None with overlap to the area. You think I'd be sitting on leads if I had them?" Zuekh snapped.
Christopher raised a brow. "Whoa, calm down."
Brendon, however, stayed still, eyes narrowing slightly.
> He's hiding something. His scent's changed. And his body language... is defensive.
Not just tired. Guarded.
Brendon leaned forward. "You don't trust me, do you?"
Zuekh didn't respond right away. "I trust the law. You're not exactly on a clean slate."
"That's not an honest answer I would say."
Zuekh chuckled bitterly. "Let me put it this way. When a human detective with twenty-five years on the job is replaced by a hybrid with claws and a rap sheet, people start asking questions."
Christopher frowned. "Is that what this is about? You think this is some competition?"
"I think it's a mistake," Zuekh replied coldly. "To give sensitive cases to someone whose instincts are more animalistic than a civilized man."
Silence fell.
Brendon stood up. "You're entitled to your thoughts, detective. But next time you hold back information, just remember — people will die for it."
He stepped out.
---
Outside the station, Brendon lit another cigarette. The sky had turned orange with dusk.
Christopher joined him a moment later. "You felt that too, didn't you?"
"Yeah," Brendon said. "Zuekh's holding something back."
"You think he's involved?"
"No," Brendon exhaled. "He's too obsessed with control. But something about this case threatens him — either professionally, or personally."
"Maybe both."
Brendon looked out over the crowded street.
"There's something bigger going on here,Christopher." He said. "Something Zuekh's trying to bury. And I'm going to dig it up."