The sirens hadn't even finished echoing before the street outside Marion Clervaux's private estate was flooded with flashing red and blue. Uniforms ran back and forth under the pale morning sun, still cutting through mist, as the neighbors whispered behind curtains and camera drones hovered overhead like vultures.
Christopher stepped out of the car first. Brendon followed, tucking his head under a hoodie as they passed the first line of patrol officers. The air was thick — not with tension, but with something worse.
Control.
Manufactured control.
A scene too neatly arranged.
"Feels... wrong," Christopher muttered.
Brendon didn't answer. His face was tight, jaw tense. They were called here minutes after the discovery. Only a handful of people had entered the house. No one had touched the body.
At the door stood Detective Zuekh, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. His face didn't betray a hint of grief, anger, or even urgency.
"Gentlemen," Zuekh said, voice low and professional. "We've had another one."
---
Scene – Inside Clervaux's Office
The office was dim, curtains still drawn. At the far end of the room, seated behind the wide mahogany desk, Marion Clervaux's body faced the door — posed, almost regal, head tilted slightly as though pondering something.
Only the thin, dried line of blood across her temple, barely visible in the light, betrayed the truth.
Christopher stepped to the side.
Brendon didn't.
He stared.
The eyes — open.
The body — not slumped.
The wine glass shattered near her feet.
Brendon's nose twitched. No recent scent of struggle. No broken glass nearby. No signs of a brawl. He approached carefully, crouching to inspect her right hand.
Still holding a pen.
Ink dried at the tip.
She was in the middle of writing something.
> "This wasn't panic," Brendon said. "She didn't die in fear."
Christopher wishered to him. "Was it staged, you say?"
Brendon nodded. "Professionally."
"Guess who we found trying to sneak out of the estate?" Zuekh's voice cut in from the doorway.
Brendon and Christopher turned in unison.
Behind Zuekh, two officers dragged in a struggling figure.
Matt.
His hoodie was half torn, one sleeve covered in dried mud, the other arm pinned behind his back as he snarled and thrashed like a cornered beast.
"You can't do this! She was already dead when I got here!" he shouted. "You think I'd be stupid enough to sit around after killing someone?! Use your damn heads you nuggets!"
Brendon stepped forward. "Wait. Where was he found?"
"Climbing over the garden wall," Zuekh answered, brushing invisible dust from his coat. "With this." He held up a thick, twisted rope. "Same type used in one of the earlier murders."
Matt was pushed to the ground.
His eyes met Brendon's.
Wide. Not of a killer. Not in that moment.
But Brendon had seen better liars.
Or maybe not.
---
Scene shift – Interrogation Room, Police Headquarters
The room was silent.
One table. Two chairs. One one-way mirror.
Brendon leaned against the wall, arms crossed, as Matt sat handcuffed questioned by Zuekh, eyes heavy from hours without sleep. His breath was shallow. Controlled.
Christopher stood near the door, watching — waiting.
Zuekh leaves the room.
"You were there," Brendon finally said. "But the way the body was staged… you didn't do that. Right?"
Matt didn't respond.
"You brought a rope, yes. But the kind of kill this was — blunt force trauma, behind the ear, fast, clean — no struggle. As if it was professional. And you aren't. Aren't you?"
Matt's lip curled, but still he didn't speak.
"You're angry," Brendon pressed. "But you're not messy. The photos from the last two scenes had emotional rage. Broken items, signs of torture. This one doesn't."
Christopher gave Brendon a subtle look. They were going too far, too fast. Matt was barely in custody. Pushing him too hard might cause him to clam up for good.
But Brendon leaned forward now, placing both palms on the table.
"You wanted justice," he said. "But why not asking law enforcement for that?"
Matt looked up slowly.
And for the first time — really looked at Brendon.
"...It was a trap," Matt whispered. "I didn't realize it until I saw her. She was already dead. The smell was wrong. The body was cold. And then—"
He stopped.
"What?"
Matt's throat tightened. "I felt eyes on me. Like I was being watched."
---
Scene Shift – Brendon's Perspective, Later that Night
Back in Christopher's apartment, Brendon sat again with Zuekh's file.
His instincts screamed.
> Clervaux's murder was too clean.
> Matt's capture is too perfect to be true.
> Zuekh was the only one already at the scene before officers arrived.
> But who is going to believe him? He is an outsider.
He rubbed his eyes. His thoughts were turning inward again. Choking on fragments.
"Talk to me," Christopher said, tossing a beer onto the table. "You're spiraling."
Brendon hesitated. "There's a story here we're not hearing. Someone's writing the script and we're just reacting to it."
"You think Matt's innocent?"
"I think Matt is a killer," Brendon replied. "But I don't think he's THE killer."
He stood.
"I'm going back to the estate. Alone. And you aren't coming. I know you have your oreders to keep me under surveillance. But I need you in something else."
---
Clervaux's Estate, After Midnight
The tape was still across the doors, but Brendon was long past caring.
He moved through the dark, the moonlight helping him navigate the stillness.
He reached the office.
The desk was clean now, body removed, cleaned up forensics. But something nagged at him.
The scent trail.
He followed it — subtle. The smell of cologne. Not Clervaux's.
He opened the side vent in the wall behind the bookshelves.
"Small, oily smudges on the inside of the vent.
A handprint.
Someone had been here.
Watching.
Waiting.
Close."
He followed the vent through to the adjacent room. Empty. Dust on the floor — except a single boot mark.
Same kind of print as found in the first killing of that woman cop.
"Bingo," Brendon whispered.
He stood in the dark, the weight of truth pressing down on him.
---
Scene Shift – Zuekh's Office
Meanwhile, Zuekh sat in his office, sleeves rolled, the lights dimmed.
On his desk — a photo.
Matt's mugshot.
Below it, Clervaux's file — stamped CLOSED.
He stared at it for a moment.
Then opened the drawer, revealing a long syringe and a half-full vial of something blue.
His reflection in the desk glass showed no hint of guilt.
Just the calm before a bigger storm.
---
Post-Credit Scene – Matt's Holding Cell
Matt lay on the cot, eyes open in the dark.
In his mind, he was somewhere else.
> Running. Screaming. A younger voice. His sister's voice.
The needle. The operating table. The uniforms. Zuekh's shadow.
He shot upright.
Not from a dream.
From a realization.
> "They never stopped," he whispered. "They're still taking people. Still framing them. Still playing God."