Early Morning — Rosa, Costa Rica
"Click!"
The sharp shutter sound of cameras echoed down a dim, narrow hallway. Flashes lit up the thick air as forensic teams worked inside Mr. Blane's luxury estate, now wrapped in a halo of yellow crime scene tape.
Officers gathered in clusters. Some questioned pale-faced maids and rattled servants, while others combed through rooms, flipping cushions and dusting drawers in search of clues. Outside, reporters swarmed like ants at a spill—press badges flashing, microphones jabbing, cameras raised over shoulders trying to capture the chaos.
A black WFAB jeep screeched around the perimeter and ground to a halt near the garage. Dust kicked into the air as its tires sank into the gravel.
Isaac and Davis stepped out with quiet authority—clad in black combat-grade WFAB uniforms, gleaming badges on their chests, sunglasses masking unreadable eyes. A few agents followed behind them.
Before they could enter, a stout older man approached.
"Good morning, agents," he said, tipping his weathered hat. "Sheriff Eduardó Sanchez, keeper of this humble town of Rosa, Costa Rica. So nice of you to pay us a visit."
Isaac raised a brow.
"Not so sweet when the air reeks of death. What've you got for us, Sheriff?"
Sanchez let out a breath. "A scene that chills the blood. In all my years of working as an officer I've seen plenty... murder, suicide, ritual madness...but this…" He glanced toward the door. "This one left a mark. Like literally. Best you see for yourselves."
Inside the Blane Estate
The agents stepped into the hallway and froze.
On the polished hardwood floor lay a light-blue tracksuit… with a skeletal imprint drawn in white ash beneath it, like a death outline etched by fire. Nearby, a pistol lay untouched. A briefcase had burst open, and dollar bills fanned out like autumn leaves.
Davis and Isaac shared a silent, stunned glance.
Isaac slipped on forensic gloves and knelt. He scraped a sample of the powder onto his fingertip, examining it under the faint morning light.
Sheriff Sanchez squinted. "Ever seen anything like this?"
Isaac shook his head slowly. "Not even close."
His gaze swept the hallway, sharp as a scalpel. There, high on the ceiling near the corner, a tiny security camera blinked behind a smudge of dust.
He stood and slowly approached.
"Sheriff, did that camera catch anything?"
Sanchez scratched his temple. "Yes. But it doesn't show much since it is quite a distance away from the murder scene. The only sound it recorded was the poor guy's agonising screams before silence took over. Only the heavens know what happened to the poor man."
Isaac's jaw tightened.
"Where did he come from before this?"
"From his study office. Footage showed him watching the news in his lounge and a few minutes later he exited the room like a storm heading to his study office. However unfortunately, his study office doesn't have a camera that could have recorded what happened." The sheriff gestured toward the skeletal imprint.
Isaac straightened. His tone sharpened.
"Agent A-2, come with me. Everyone else—dust the house. Tear through every room. Bag the powder and send it for full toxic analysis at the lab."
Davis nodded.
Whatever had happened here wasn't just murder. It was a message.
And someone… had written it in ash.
Davis followed Isaac into the study office, where rich mahogany shelves loomed with books organized like trophies. Sunlight crept through half-drawn blinds, casting slanted shadows across the floor.
"Well… looks like we've got another mystery murder on our hands," Davis muttered, running a gloved hand along the shelf.
"You think our guy is involved?" he asked.
Isaac hummed from the desk, rummaging through drawers lined with velvet and secrets.
"Mmmhmm. I can smell Montenegra all over this. These kind of scenes only started cropping up once Patricia led us toward the truth. He knows we're onto him. That's why he's burning the breadcrumbs… hoping the trail turns cold."
Davis flipped open an aging hardback and raised an eyebrow.
"It still doesn't explain what killed Blane. I mean...what kind of chemical weapon reduces bone to ash in seconds? That's not just creepy—it's science fiction horror."
Isaac straightened, brushing off his gloves.
"Funny. I thought stuff like this belonged in movies. But it looks like someone's turning our world into a horror franchise… and they're laughing behind the curtain."
"Any luck?" he asked.
Davis shrugged, holding up a book with a mischievous grin.
"Nothing useful. Unless you think an erotic novel tucked inside a business guidebook holds the secret formula to ash-ification, I'm tapped out."
Isaac chuckled.
"Knowing you, that might be your favorite discovery of the day. Too bad you can't bring evidence home. I hear the plot really heats up after chapter three."
"Ha. Ha. You're hilarious," Davis said, rolling his eyes and sliding the book back in place. "Honestly? I don't think we'll find anything here. This guy was a neat freak. Officers have already swept through the room twice—and it's spotless."
Isaac knelt by the desk, scanning the floor's crevices.
"Except they didn't sweep carefully."
He lifted his gloved hand, now dusted with faint white powder.
"Looks like our dear banker's body wasn't the only thing consumed."
He reached out. "Flashlight."
Davis handed over a compact beam strapped near his holster.
Isaac clicked it on, removed his shades, and began to survey the underside of the desk. White powder stained the floor—concentrated near the seams in the tile.
"Brush," he said.
Davis passed over the fine-bristle forensic brush.
Isaac worked patiently, sweeping away layers of residue. Then, nestled between two warped tiles, he saw something.
A tiny microchip, barely intact. Its edge was charred, one corner eaten away like it had been kissed by acid.
Isaac lifted it delicately, holding it between his fingers.
"Hell… looks like our mystery killer wasn't expecting this setback," he said, handing it to Davis.
The two exchanged a glance—grim satisfaction flickering in their smirks.
The trail wasn't cold just yet.
.....
Just a short distance from the chaos at Mr. Blane's estate, the town center was alive and humming.
Inside a quaint café overlooking the Rosa police station, the scent of freshly brewed coffee swirled with the buttery aroma of toasted pastries. Patrons shuffled in and out, wrapped in morning chatter and clinking mugs. Among them, a cluster of uniformed officers sat by the window, decompressing after a long night.
One officer leaned back with a sigh.
"Damn… I still can't believe what happened to Blane. Criminal or not, that's a horrific way to die."
Another took a sip from his glass of water.
"Yeah, I don't believe it. Not even a single bone was found except powdered ash. That's really creepy..."
A third officer frowned, fingers drumming against the table.
"And the freakiest part? That ash can't be traced. No human DNA. No chemical origin. It's as if, it erased him from existence completely."
"Who could do something like that?" one asked, voice low.
The officer with tousled brown hair, lean and intense, glanced sideways.
"No one knows. Even the WFAB doesn't have a single clue. But I heard that the guy was involved in some shady dealings with the 'Bull Dog'. I guess that's what got him killed."
Immediately, the larger officer with black buzzed hair leaned forward and whisper-shouted.
"Otto! For the love of Costa, shut up! You know how dangerous it is to say that name in public!"
Another nodded urgently.
"Yeah, José's right. That name's cursed. Everyone who says it ends up with something nasty—arrested, vanished, or worse…"
But Otto just scoffed. "Nah. I'm not afraid of that bastard. He should've been behind bars years ago. If our dear coward of a mayor wasn't so spineless, we wouldn't be having this conversation. And now they're letting him race in the derby? After last year's rampage?"
He shook his head.
"I guess it's true what they say, 'when you have money, you have power'."
José crossed his arms.
"He's the best derby racer Costa Rica's ever seen. Runs half the businesses in Rosa too. He's practically untouchable."
Otto's jaw tightened.
"You mean illegal businesses. And if that pig hadn't twisted my arm and made me promise to back off… I'd have taken a shot at him myself."
He leaned in slightly, voice dark.
"But that girl—that racer—the one stirring everything up? She's about to waltz into a hornet's nest. Trust me. I know."
José narrowed his eyes.
"And what do you know, exactly?"
Otto smirked.
"A lot more than you'd think."
José studied Otto with quiet intensity—until the clatter of porcelain broke the silence.
A cheerful waitress arrived, balancing a tray of coffee and pastries.
"Here are your orders, gentlemen. Please enjoy," she said with a smile, then turned and left.
The officers dug into their breakfast, laughter fading into a low hum of morning chatter.
José's eyes drifted toward the back of the café.
A man sat alone, dressed in a sleek black-and-red tracksuit. A newspaper shielded his face, hands steady, posture relaxed.
Then, as if sensing José's gaze, he lowered the paper.
Blonde tousled hair. Piercing brown eyes. A subtle smile tugged at his lips.
For a moment, they stared at each other.
No words.
Just understanding.
José blinked and turned back toward his companions.
Crash!
A coffee mug shattered on the tiled floor.
All heads whipped around towards the scene.
Officer Otto had dropped his coffee mug on the floor and he started convulsing—froth bubbling from his mouth, body seizing violently as he collapsed.
Gasps rose. Chairs scraped back. Shouts filled the café.
Otto locked eyes with José, panic blooming behind pain. José held his stare, a tiny smirk playing on his lips before he silently mouthed the words.
"You had it coming."
Otto seized violently on the floor for some minutes whilst frothing on the mouth.
Then silence.
"He's dead!" one officer cried.
Panic surged as paramedics burst through the doors. The café was thrown into chaos—screams, shouts, sirens.
And just like a ghost in the shadows, the man who was reading the newspaper silently stood up, glanced at the scene with an expressionless face and slipped out of the café unnoticed due to the commotion.
But he wasn't alone.
In a shadowed corner, another figure watched, camera in hand. Snap after snap captured the man's face, the look shared with José, the silent exit.
With a satisfied smirk the figure tucked away the camera, took out their phone and dialed a number.
"Captain… I got him."