It was past midnight.
The city that had once sung of light and love now buzzed only with fluorescent silence and flickering streetlamps. Somewhere in the labyrinth of back alleys and rooftop shadows, the real killer still moved unseen.
But tonight, Brendon wasn't prowling the streets.
He sat hunched over a dimly lit library terminal inside the Paris Archives. The air smelled of dust, printer ink, and old mildew. His ears twitched every time the old scanner whirred to life.
A pile of files rested next to him — case logs, transfer records, internal memos — all bearing one name stamped or scribbled somewhere along the margin:
> Detective Juleus Zuekh.
---
The Search
Christopher had dozed off in the car outside, trusting Brendon to follow through on his instincts. The police database was too tightly guarded — even for Brendon's tricks — but the civilian archive center still kept old, declassified records for transparency.
> If Zuekh's not telling us something… maybe the past will.
He started with service history.
Zuekh had joined the French National Police 22 years ago. He was praised early on for his work on hostage cases and had solved a high-profile serial killing spree in Marseille at age 29. After that, he was transferred to Paris and promoted to Detective Senior.
> Fast climb. Impressive even by human standards.
But something felt off... it is just too polished for a record.
His record had too many clean conclusions, as if scrubbed down. Either Zuekh was a prodigy, or someone had helped smooth out the cracks.
---
Small Oddities
Brendon dug deeper. He found a 14-year-old internal complaint filed by a canine hybrid officer, accusing Zuekh of "derogatory and abusive treatment in the field." The report was never followed up. The officer's name had been redacted.
Another report — buried under layers — revealed a closed investigation where a suspect was killed during an interrogation. The victim? A goat-chamelon hybrid. Cause of death? "Self-inflicted." But the medical report had inconsistencies. Missing time stamps. Unusual bruising patterns.
Brendon clicked his tongue.
> Doesn't prove anything… but it leaves a stench.
Still, he found no connection to the Bleeding Eye case. No matching rope patterns, no notes, no reported obsessions. Zuekh's name never directly appeared on any of those cases. At least not in the open.
The deeper Brendon dug, the more he realized the man's record was carefully cultivated. No loose ends. No personal life. No photos.
It was like looking into a mirror that refused to reflect.
---
Back to the Streets
By the time Brendon stepped out of the library, the sky had begun to lighten to a bruised purple. Christopher was leaning against the hood of the car, yawning.
"You were in there all night."
Brendon nodded. "I was curious."
"And?"
Brendon tossed a folder onto the dashboard. "Zuekh's history is… cleaner than it should be. Too polished. But there are gaps. Complaints that got buried. One even involved death by 'accident.' A hybrid victim."
Christopher's brow furrowed. "Do you think he's hiding something?"
"I'm sure of it. I just don't know what. Yet."
They drove in silence for a few minutes.
"Do you think he's connected to the killings?" Christopher asked.
Brendon flicked ash out the window. "I don't have proof. For now we can't keep him out of radar. But something about his attitude — it's not just professional resentment. It's personal. Like he wants this case to go unsolved. Or… misdirected."
Christopher counters. "Or maybe having so much good of a record comes with great pride. It's possible he wants to solve this case all by himself to make his career card even more good."
Brendon slowly nods. "Hmm... that's quite a possibility. But still we can't let our guard down."
---
Scene Shift — Police HQ
Later that day, Brendon and Christopher returned to the main police station. Brendon carried himself with the same quiet caution, covered his face with a face mask, but his eyes lingered longer now — especially when Zuekh passed by.
The detective didn't notice. Or pretended not to.
Zuekh handed them the new forensic report on the recent murder scene.
"Still waiting on Dr. Banik's results?" he asked with a raised brow.
Brendon nodded. "Soon."
Zuekh gave a slight smirk. "Let's hope he finds something useful this time for you."
Christopher tensed at the sarcasm. Brendon, however, said nothing. He simply turned and walked away — but he was watching.
He had started building a picture in his mind. Zuekh was not just arrogant. He was controlled. Cold. His energy didn't match the grief of the scenes he investigated. He was more interested in the structure of the crime, not the victims.
It was like he was admiring his own art.
---
Back at the Apartment
Later that evening, Christopher poured them both tea while Brendon sat silently on the floor, sprawled in a meditative position with a map spread out.
"There's something wrong with this entire pattern," he said. "The killer doesn't pick targets at random. Each one seems to strike deeper."
"Deeper how?"
Brendon circled the most recent murder locations. "They're all near old urban reallocation sites. Places where hybrids were evicted ten years ago. All the victims… were humans as we already know."
Christopher frowned. "You think it's symbolic?"
"Maybe. Or a message. But if that's the case, the killer isn't just attacking humans — he's somewhat putting hybrids in problem. Framing them intentionally or unintentionally."
"You think Zuekh's leading the narrative?"
"I think someone is. And Zuekh's either helping… or letting it happen."
---
END CREDIT SCENE
A flickering light bulb buzzed inside the cramped basement chamber. The walls were lined with dented lockers, rolled bedding, and scraps of leftover wire coils.
Matt, the polar bear hybrid, sat quietly at a rusted table. His large hand held a chipped mug of lukewarm broth, steam rising in slow ribbons.
The newspaper was spread out in front of him. The headline screamed in red font:
> "Another Family Slain. Police Suspect Hybrid Involvement."
He stared at the image of the crime scene. The chalk outlines. The child's shoe.
Then at the photo of the chief investigator: Detective Jules Zuekh.
His thick fingers clenched the edge of the table.
His breath hissed. Then steadied.
He opened the old photograph beside the paper. A 14-year-old girl smiled at the camera — his sister.
His voice, low and hoarse, barely a whisper. "I will avenge your death."
The camera pans out slowly.
The basement bulb continues to buzz.
Darkness settles again.