The four of them gathered in a modest office. The walls milky white, with few canvas hanging of flowers and mountains scenery. A wide window let in the afternoon sunlight, cutting sharp lines across the floor and tables before it.
Books in the back, perfectly adjusted in the bookshelf, not a sight of any dust in them. The clock on the wall ticked steadily, marking seconds that felt heavier than they should. They had only left the crime scene two hours ago, yet the images still clung to them like damp clothes.
Two sofas faced each other with a low wooden table in between, clean except for a single notepad, few photos and a half-finished cup of coffee. The air carried the faint dryness of dust mixed with sunlight.
Sara sat with her arms crossed, sharp eyes tracking every shift of movement. Julian leaned back, legs stretched out, his usual casual air betraying the tension running beneath. Paul sat beside Sara, nearest the corner, arms crossed loosely, calm in a way that was almost unnatural— detached, as though he wasn't here .
It was the same calm Sara had seen in the hotel room, when he looked over the scene like he was already ahead of them. Like the rest of them were just catching up.
Simon stood by the window. The sunlight caught his outline, broad-shouldered and still, his reflection overlapping faintly on the glass. He looked out for a long moment, then turned back toward the others.
Julian broke the silence first. He leaned forward, tapping the table with his index finger.
"Alright, let's play a round of guess-the-killer.
Bloody canvas on the floor? Too clean. Spread way too wide for how little the body was actually touched."
"No drag marks," Sara's brows furrowed. "Nobody hauled him in or out. It was placed there—no sign of struggle. He wanted us to see it."
Julian smirked, tilting his head. "Or maybe he's just a better artist than we give him credit. Professional touch."
Sara shot him a sharp glance. "Very funny."
"I'm dead serious." Julian shrugged, palms up. "People fake scenes all the time. Throw in some gore, confuse the timeline— buy themselves room to breathe."
Sara leaned back, arms crossed tighter. "Then why leave the blood at all? Why not just clean everything? That mess wasn't lazy. It was deliberate."
Julian tapped his foot, thoughtful now. "So you're saying... bait?"
"Obviously." Her voice was clipped. "But bait for what?"
Julian drummed his fingers on the table, as his mind started to wonder.
"So you telling me that bitch was keeping track on us ? From when though…. If he really wanted. He could've swept everything from the beginning. We hadn't had a chance to reach Varga. Where this train is heading….?
Julian finally leaned back, sighing. "Honestly, it's very simple. He wants the attention his mother never gave him."
Sara's brow tightened. "No. It's worse than that. He wants us to waste time. Find the puzzle when he is controlling pieces. Makes us look stupid while he gets away with the real play."
Julian tilted his head. "Same thing in the end, isn't it? Either way we're dancing to his tune."
Sara's voice was low now. "No. There's a difference between being baited and being mocked."
Julian chuckled without humor. "Sure. Tell that to the bloodbath in that room."
And then Julian eyes landed on Paul.
"Why is he silent? We're all doing this for him, aren't we?" He jerked his chin toward Paul.
Paul didn't move. His gaze was fixed on some vague point beyond the bookshelf's, as though he hadn't listened. But Sara knew he had. He always did. That was the problem. He heard, understood, and said nothing.
Sara felt irritation rise in her chest, but it was tangled with something else— a reluctant familiarity. This was the Paul she knew. Calm. Detached. Friendly enough when he wanted to be, but cold when it mattered most. He never shared more than he had to—never gave more than the bare minimum.
If he already had conclusions, he'd lock them away. And yet… she found herself shrugging inwardly. That was Paul. It was who he was.
Julian leaned forward, irritation sharpening his voice. "Look, we don't even have the forensics yet. No blood reports, no lab confirmation, nothing until those fraud cops completes their assignment. We're running circles off guesswork. And he–" he jabbed a finger in Paul's direction "–sits there like Sherlock already solved it."
Sara's gaze flicked toward Paul again. His
expression hadn't changed. Calm. Empty. Like watching the play. He was an audience and they were the puppets.
Julian threw up his hands. "Guess we've got nothing? Just sit here until the reports roll in."
Sara finally cut in, tone firm. "We use what we do have. The scene, the placement, the timing. The rest will come with the reports. Forensics takes time. The cops will dig through their own angles, and by then we'll already be ahead if we keep moving."
Julian exhaled sharply, leaning back. "Fine. But let's not kid ourselves—everything's speculation until those reports land."
Julian didn't say anything further. He frowned, gaze wandering toward the window as if the answer might be out there.
The clock ticked louder in the silence that followed.
And then, from the far side of the room, Simon finally spoke. His voice cut through the quiet like a slow blade, measured, calm, carrying a weight that made everyone's eyes shift toward him.
"You're right," he said evenly, eyes flicking from Sara to Julian. "We don't have the reports. No forensics, no lab analysis, no confirmation from the cops. All we have is what we saw. And that's enough— for now."
Julian tilted his head back with a skeptical look. "Enough for what? To spin more theories that'll fall apart when the reports hit?"
Simon didn't flinch. His gaze was steady, his tone low but unshakable, carrying the weight of command without raising his voice.
"It was staged," he said. "The scene. The blood. All of it. Not just to throw us off, but to pull us in. Whoever did this wants us to waste time chasing ghost. And still— he wants us to follow. That's the message."
Silence pressed the room. Even Julian, ready with a retort, didn't speak.
Simon's eyes lingered on Paul, studying him for a moment, as if weighing whether he already knew this. Paul's face was unreadable. Calm. Detached. Always.
"Thinking back," Simon continued, eyes moving back to Sara and Julian. "The alley incident. The killer had every chance to finish it there. To kill me. To kill Paul. He didn't. Why?"
Sara's breath caught faintly. She doesn't have a clear picture about that event because she wasn't present at that time but— the way things going . It wasn't hard to guess.
She glanced at Paul again. His posture hadn't shifted. His silence wasn't ignorance—it was almost worse than that. Like he was already somewhere further along the line of thought, and nothing Simon said was a surprise. Calm, detached. The Paul she knew. The Paul she couldn't read.
Simon's voice dropped lower, deliberate. "Either someone from higher up doesn't want the noise. Or it's personal. Someone wants me alive. Wants us alive. He is inviting us ."
He sat on the sofa besides Julian, folding his arms. "And we don't get to refuse it. We have no choice but to accept."
The words hung there, heavy.
Tsk.
Paul shifted slightly in his seat. A faint tsk slipped out, so quiet it could have been mistaken for impatience with the room's silence. But Sara, sitting closest, caught it—and caught the flicker of annoyance in his eyes.
At first, she thought it was simple irritation, like Paul already knew all of this and was waiting for the rest of them to catch up. But the longer she studied him, the more it felt like something deeper—like Simon's words themselves grated. Not the deduction, but the tone. That protective certainty, that big-brother weight Simon carried even when he didn't mean to. It pressed down on Paul in a way he hated, because it made him look small.
Calm, detached—that was Paul. Always. But she could see it then, just for a moment: the mask slipping. A boy tired of being lectured, tired of being shielded, tired of everyone assuming he was a step behind when in truth, he might already be a step ahead.
Her lips pressed Into a thin line. Then she forced herself to shrug it off. Well… This is Paul alright. Knows everything but speaks nothing.
Simon's voice cut through again, unshaken.
"This is personal. And whether we want it or not, we're already on the stage. So we play. But not blindly."
Julian groaned, rubbing his face. "Great. So we run around chasing some ghost who's setting up art projects just to laugh at us. Love it."
Simon ignored the jab, eyes still forward. "We don't get to choose the fight. We only get to choose how we answer."
The discussion wound down with the usual half-answers. No forensic report yet, no word from the cops, just theories stacked against theories. The room settled into a heavy silence that even Julian didn't try to break.
Simon leaned back in sofa, gathering the photos into a neat pile with deliberate slowness. Finally, he said, "That's enough for now. We'll move again once the reports come in." His tone was final, not inviting debate.
Julian pushed up with a sigh. "Sure. Until then, let's all enjoy wasting oxygen." He headed for the door.
Sara followed, offering Simon a brief nod before moving past Paul. She slowed just slightly when she saw him remain seated, the same calm, unreadable look fixed on his face.
"Come on," Julian called over his shoulder.
But Simon's voice cut through the air like a command:
"Paul. Stay."
Sara blinked, then glanced back. For a heartbeat, she thought she saw Paul's eyes harden, the faintest flicker of annoyance passing across his face—but then it was gone, replaced by that same detached calm. He gave her the smallest of nods, as if to say go on without me.
Julian grumbled but didn't press it. Sara hesitated, her eyes lingering on Paul, searching for something in his stillness. Then she sighed and turned away, the door closing softly behind them.
Now it was only the two of them.
Simon set the everything down on the table, folded his hands, and looked directly at Paul. His voice was steady, low, but edged with something heavier—both authority and worry.
"We need to talk."