Chapter 3: A Detective's First Kill
**[Aethelburg Industrial Sector - 10:17 AM]**
The next morning broke grey and indecisive, the sun a pale smear behind a blanket of smog.
It was Alex's day off, a fact that meant nothing to him.
Sleep had been a shallow, restless sea of fragmented data and the phantom image of a man hanging from silver wires.
He bypassed the precinct entirely.
This was his own time, his own investigation.
He was a ghost, operating in the margins of a case that, according to every official metric, no longer existed.
His first stop was an industrial supply wholesaler in the city's grimy underbelly.
The place smelled of machine oil and rust.
A bored man behind a reinforced counter barely glanced at the photo on Alex's phone.
"Nichrome wire? Yeah, we sell it."
"By the hundred-meter spool. Mostly to furnace repair guys and big workshops."
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"Have you had any unusual purchases recently?" Alex asked, keeping his tone casual.
"Small quantity, maybe a cash payment?"
The man gave him a flat, uninterested stare.
"Kid, we do a hundred transactions a day."
"I don't get paid enough to remember what anyone buys, let alone what their face looks like."
"You got a purchase order number?"
"No. Thanks for your time," Alex said, already turning to leave.
It was a dead end, but a predictable one.
A professional wouldn't buy his materials from a place with extensive camera coverage and paper trails.
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**[The Artisan's Crucible, Midtown - 11:28 AM]**
His second stop was on the other side of town, in a district where gentrification was losing a battle against urban decay.
"The Artisan's Crucible" was a small shop tucked between a pawn store and a boarded-up laundromat.
The bell above the door chimed a cheerful, melodic tune that was entirely at odds with the grimy street outside.
The shop was a wonderland of the esoteric.
Shelves were crammed with everything from hand-blown glass to imported carving tools and rare pigments.
The air smelled of wood shavings, turpentine, and old paper.
An elderly man with a magnificent white beard and ink-stained fingers looked up from a workbench.
"Can I help you, son? Or are you just here to breathe in the inspiration?"
"I might be," Alex replied with a small smile, feeling a strange sense of calm in the organized chaos of the shop.
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He approached the counter and showed the man his phone.
"I'm looking for this."
"A very specific gauge of Nichrome 80 wire."
The old man squinted, pulling a pair of spectacles from his pocket and perching them on his nose.
He studied the image for a long moment, his head tilted.
"Ah, yes. The 'N-80'," he said, his voice raspy with age.
"Good, strong stuff. Artists love it for suspension pieces. Resists almost everything."
"I stock it, but it's not a big seller. A bit of a specialty item."
Alex felt a familiar, cold tingle at the base of his neck.
*[CrimeSync: Proximity to key evidence confirmed. Subject's memory engrams show high relevance.]*
"Did you sell any recently?" Alex asked, his voice steady.
"As a matter of fact, I did," the owner mused, stroking his beard.
"Just two days ago."
"A young man, very polite. Very... precise. Knew exactly what he wanted. Ten meters of the 32-gauge."
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"Do you remember what he looked like?"
"Afraid not, son. He wore one of those medical masks and a ball cap. Kept his head down."
"I figured he was just being cautious about the seasonal flu."
"He paid in cash, which was also unusual. Most of my clients have accounts."
Alex's hope began to wane. A ghost.
No face, no name, no credit card.
"But," the old man continued, a twinkle in his eye, "he was very insistent on having an invoice for his records."
"For a business expense, he said. Paid cash but wanted the paper trail. Strange bird."
The tingle intensified.
"An invoice? Did he give you a name? A company?"
"He did. Wrote it down himself."
The owner turned and shuffled through a spindle of receipts on his desk.
"Said the business would reimburse him. Let's see... ah, here it is."
"'Argentum Designs'."
------
The name was meaningless. Likely a shell corporation.
"Was there an address?" Alex asked, his heart starting to beat a little faster.
"For the invoice, yes. Said it was for their workshop."
The old man turned the paper around.
Scribbled in neat, block letters was the name of the shell company and an address.
**ARGENTUM DESIGNS**
**1412 Dockside Road, Unit 7. The Industrial Spires.**
Alex felt a surge of triumph so potent it was almost dizzying.
It was more than a thread.
It was a lifeline.
"Thank you," Alex said, his voice filled with genuine gratitude. "You've been a great help."
"Always happy to help a fellow artist," the old man said with a smile.
"Even if I don't know what his medium is."
*Oh, I do,* Alex thought grimly as he walked out of the shop.
*Flesh and wire.*
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**[The Industrial Spires, Dockside - 07:46 PM]**
Dockside Road wasn't so much a road as a collection of potholes connected by strips of cracked asphalt.
It was in the oldest part of the industrial sector, a graveyard of forgotten factories and decaying warehouses.
The 'Industrial Spires' was a laughably optimistic name for a row of squat, brick buildings bleeding rust down their corrugated metal doors.
It was evening now. The sky was the color of a day-old bruise.
A thick, damp mist rolled in from the nearby shipping canal, smelling of salt and decay.
Alex parked his unremarkable sedan a block away and approached on foot.
His hand rested on the reassuring weight of the Glock at his hip.
He was off the clock, off the grid, and completely without backup.
Every instinct screamed that this was a stupid, reckless move.
But CrimeSync was a quiet, cold hum in his mind, telling him this was the place.
The final destination.
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*[CrimeSync Alert: Ambient olfactory data matches crime scene anomaly. Ozone and Cyanide residue detected, concentration low but present.]*
Unit 7 was identical to the others, save for a newer, high-security padlock on the door.
There were no windows.
Alex circled the building. In the back, a small, grime-coated window had been boarded up, but one of the boards was loose.
He worked it free with quiet, patient effort, creating a gap just large enough to see through.
The interior was the complete opposite of the dilapidated exterior.
It was spotlessly clean, almost sterile.
A long workbench was lined with gleaming tools, all arranged with obsessive precision.
On one side of the room, he could see several spools of the familiar Nichrome wire.
On the other, a complex assembly of chemical beakers and tubes sat next to a small, high-voltage transformer.
And in the center of the room, hanging from a ceiling beam, was a life-sized artist's mannequin, strung up in the exact same pose as the councilman.
------
This was it.
The killer's sanctuary. His rehearsal studio.
There was no way in without forcing the lock and announcing his presence.
He had to call it in. He had to do it by the book.
He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over Captain Rostova's number.
But then he heard it.
A faint sound from within. A metallic click.
*[Warning: Bio-signatures detected. Subject is on premises. Adrenaline and norepinephrine levels are elevated.]*
The killer was here. Now.
There was no time. The element of surprise was his only advantage.
Alex holstered his phone, drew his weapon, and in one fluid, decisive motion, kicked the main door just beside the lock.
The rusted metal frame splintered with a deafening crack, and the door flew inward.
He burst into the room, weapon raised, sweeping the scene.
"Aethelburg PD! Show me your hands!"
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A figure emerged from a shadowed alcove in the back.
It was a young man, unassuming and dressed in simple, dark clothing.
He looked more like a graduate student than a monster.
Alex recognized him instantly from the Sterling case file.
It was Julian Croft, the councilman's brilliant, overlooked protege.
Julian didn't look scared. He looked... disappointed. Annoyed.
As if Alex were a janitor who had interrupted a delicate experiment.
"Detective Stone," he said, his voice calm and even. "I must confess, I'm surprised."
"I truly thought the official narrative was sufficient for your department's limited intellect. I underestimated you."
"It's over, Julian," Alex said, his voice tight, his Glock held steady in a two-handed grip. "Get on your knees. Hands on your head."
Julian let out a soft, airy laugh.
"Over? Detective, the case is closed. You're trespassing. This is a private art studio."
"What exactly do you plan to arrest me for? A creative hobby?"
------
He took a step forward, his hands empty and held slightly to his sides.
"Richard Sterling was my mentor. He stole my work, my future. He was going to publish my research under his own name."
"I didn't kill him. I simply... corrected the narrative."
"I created a piece of art that told the truth of his pathetic, fraudulent life. It was justice."
"You murdered him," Alex stated, the words like chips of ice.
"Semantics," Julian scoffed, taking another step closer. "And you have no proof. A dead man, a closed case. It's just you and me. Your word against a ghost."
Suddenly, Julian's left hand flicked forward.
It wasn't a weapon, but a small, black object. An emitter.
A piercing, ultrasonic shriek filled the room, so high-pitched it was almost beyond hearing.
It slammed into Alex's skull like a physical blow.
*[CrimeSync Warning: Auditory assault detected. Sensory input overloaded. Attempting to recalibrate... FAILED.]*
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The world swam. Alex staggered back, his vision blurring, the precise data of CrimeSync dissolving into white noise.
It was the opening Julian needed.
He lunged, not at Alex, but to the side, grabbing a long, sharpened steel rod from the workbench.
He was impossibly fast.
He swept the rod low, aiming for Alex's legs.
Alex, disoriented, barely managed to leap back, the rod clanging against a metal table.
The fight was a blur of motion.
Julian was no brawler; he was a fencer, using the rod with precise, deadly stabs in the confined space.
Alex, relying on his academy training, deflected and parried, the ultrasonic shriek still hammering at his senses.
He couldn't get a clear shot.
------
Julian feinted high and then thrust low.
The sharpened tip of the rod caught Alex in the side, tearing through his jacket and biting deep into the flesh below his ribs.
A searing, white-hot pain exploded through him.
He cried out, stumbling back.
He saw the look in Julian's eyes.
It was the detached, curious look of a scientist dissecting a specimen.
He wasn't just trying to escape. He was trying to kill him.
There was no more time for procedure. No more time for non-lethal options.
As Julian raised the rod for a final, killing thrust aimed at his throat, Alex, through a haze of pain and sonic agony, brought his Glock up.
He didn't aim. He fired.
------
The gunshot was a deafening roar in the small workshop, a sound that obliterated the ultrasonic shriek and everything else.
Julian Croft froze, a look of profound surprise on his face.
The steel rod clattered to the concrete floor.
A small, dark hole had appeared in the center of his chest.
He looked down at it, then back up at Alex, his mouth opening as if to say one last, brilliant thing.
But only a soft sigh escaped.
He crumpled to the ground, his puppet show over for good.
The silence that followed was absolute.
It pressed in on Alex, heavy and suffocating.
All he could hear was the frantic, ragged sound of his own breathing and the drumming of blood in his ears.
------
The sharp, coppery smell of a new death filled the room, mingling with the old scents of ozone and almond.
He stood over the body, his gun still smoking, a searing pain in his side.
He had a dead suspect.
A closed case.
A clean shoot, but one that was entirely off the books.
He was a hero who had broken a dozen regulations.
He was a killer who had stopped a monster.
He looked at the phone on the floor, the one he should have used to call for backup.
He had his proof now, lying in a pool of blood at his feet.
But he also had a mess that could end his career before it had even truly begun.
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**DETECTIVE'S LOG: ALEX STONE**
**CASE FILE: 001 - The Gilded Puppet (Closed... Permanently)**
**STATUS:** Suspect identified and confronted. Suspect is now deceased. Justifiable homicide, but occurred during an unsanctioned, covert investigation.
**KEY EVIDENCE (CRIMESYNC DATA):**
- Lead Verified: Nichrome 80 wire supplier led to killer's workshop.
- Perpetrator: Julian Croft. Motive confirmed.
- Complication: Sustained physical injury. Discharged service weapon. One hostile KIA.
**CURRENT OBJECTIVE:** Figure out how to report a self-defense killing in an investigation that never officially happened. Survive the fallout.
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**End of Chapter 3**
*"Justice isn't always clean, and the truth isn't always convenient. Sometimes they both come with a price written in blood."*
**To be continued...**