Marcus leaned back in his chair, staring at the torn Bible on the table. The bloodstained numbers still echoed in his mind, but Jean's voice pulled him back.
"The Hanged Man?" Marcus finally asked, his tone quiet but sharp.
Jean nodded, adjusting his glasses. "That's the nickname the media gave him. They've already decided the killer's image for the public. The name's spreading fast." His voice carried a mix of irritation and weariness. "Anyway… you met the victim's parents. What did they say?"
The room fell silent as every eye turned toward Marcus. He didn't answer right away. He kept his gaze fixed on the table, gathering his thoughts. Then, after a pause, he spoke.
"They were odd. Too odd. When I told them about George's death, they didn't cry, didn't break down… didn't even ask how it happened." Marcus's jaw clenched. "They just said he deserved it."
The silence deepened. Even the hum of the air conditioner felt loud. A couple of the men at the table shifted uncomfortably, as if the words had left a bitter taste in the air.
Standing near the wall was a man in a brown suit, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. He raised an eyebrow and finally broke the silence. "That's a possibility," he said, his voice calm but firm. "If his own parents reacted like that, then George wasn't just some normal, devoted worker. Either that, or he was raised in something very twisted."
He stepped forward, setting the cup down on the table before extending his hand to Marcus. "Marvin. Detective, like you."
Marcus shook it firmly. "Marcus."
Jonathan leaned forward, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "If his parents truly said he deserved it… is it possible George wasn't innocent in all this? Maybe he was raised badly, maybe he had mental issues. Even if a child is adopted, parents don't just throw those kinds of words unless something darker is beneath it."
Marcus exhaled slowly, his voice low. "While they were talking, they didn't hesitate. They said it like they meant it—like he was useless, disgusting."
Jean, sitting at the head of the table, repeated the word carefully. "Disgusting? What exactly do you mean?"
Marcus shook his head. "I don't know. That's just what they said."
Marvin crossed his arms, thinking aloud. "Disgusting… that's not a word parents usually use for their own child. Unless he did something vile. Is it possible he was… a pervert? Someone who crossed the line in ways we don't know?" His voice was blunt, leaving no room for sugarcoating. "That could explain why the killer took his dignity in death."
Jonathan's eyes narrowed. "If that's true, then is this killing about hatred? And if it's hatred… could the killer possibly be a woman?"
The room stilled again at the suggestion. For a moment, no one spoke.
Jean broke the silence. His fingers tapped slowly on the table as he thought. "We can't jump to conclusions yet. But if George really lived with that kind of history, then we need to know more. There has to be a reason why his dignity was stripped away, why his body was displayed in humiliation. People don't go to such lengths without motive."
Marcus leaned forward. His expression hardened. "Agreed. His parents' reaction wasn't grief. It was rejection. They pushed him away even in death. I need to know why." He stood, his chair scraping against the floor. "I'll visit his workplace. Talk to his coworkers. Maybe they'll give us something his parents refused to."
Marvin picked up his cup again and gave Marcus a quick nod. "Let me come with you. Two detectives digging might stir more than one."
Marcus smirked faintly, though his eyes were still sharp. "Fine. Let's move."
Jean shifted his focus to Jonathan. "As for you—stay here. Work on the codes. Start with the one we found in George's apartment, then move to the one carved into his body. See if there's any pattern or connection between them. If this killer is playing games, we need to get ahead of him."
Jonathan gave a brief nod, pushing his glasses up. "Understood. I'll run through Caesar shifts, Vigenère, anything that matches. I'll find something."
Jean's gaze swept across the room one last time, his voice heavy with authority. "This case isn't just about a murder. It's about humiliation, secrets, and messages left in blood. Every move the killer makes is calculated. Don't underestimate him."
Marcus and Marvin exchanged a look before heading for the door. Jonathan gathered his notes, already scribbling down the torn numbers from the Bible. Jean stayed seated, his eyes fixed on the empty chair where Marcus had been. For a moment, the long table felt colder, heavier, as though the weight of the case itself pressed against the walls.
The team moved out, each man carrying a piece of the puzzle. Somewhere beyond the walls of that room, the Hanged Man was still free, still watching. And if the parents' words meant anything, George's death was only the beginning of something far more twisted.
The car hummed steadily down the wet asphalt, city lights flashing past the windshield. Marcus gripped the wheel with one hand, his eyes fixed on the road. The silence between him and Marvin lingered for a while, broken only by the low rumble of the engine.
"So," Marvin said at last, sipping from a paper cup he had smuggled from the station. "You don't talk much, do you? Makes me wonder if you're always this quiet, or if you just don't like me."
Marcus smirked faintly but kept his eyes forward. "I just don't waste words."
"Mm-hmm," Marvin muttered. "Classic orphan behavior."
Marcus shot him a sharp glance, but Marvin only grinned, shrugging. "Relax. I read your file. No parents, raised yourself, worked your ass off through school. Not the first detective I've seen like that. Tough kids who teach themselves how to survive usually make good cops."
"Or bitter ones," Marcus replied dryly.
"That too," Marvin admitted, leaning back. "So, you really had to work all the way through college? No help, no nothing?"
"Yeah. Part-time jobs, whatever I could find. Night shifts, odd work. Slept when I could, studied when I couldn't. It wasn't easy, but it was mine." His voice carried no pride, only fact. "No one ever gave me anything."
Marvin let out a low whistle. "No wonder you're stiff. Probably never had time to loosen up. Tell me ever even had a girlfriend in all that time?"
Marcus's grip on the wheel tightened, and he gave Marvin a sideways glare. "Really?"
Marvin laughed. "Come on, man, it's a fair question! You're what, early thirties? Good shape, sharp jawline, brooding detective look all the clichés. And still, I'm guessing… nothing?"
Marcus shook his head, chuckling despite himself. "This field is depressing. You spend your days in crime scenes and interrogation rooms, nights chasing leads that go nowhere. Not exactly a romantic backdrop."
"Depends on who you're with," Marvin shot back, grinning. "Me, I managed it. Been married fifteen years. Got a wife who hasn't killed me yet miracle of miracles and a daughter I love more than anything." His expression softened for a moment. "She's ten. Smart kid. Talks too much. Keeps me sane, really."
Marcus allowed himself a small smile. "Sounds… nice."
"It is," Marvin said firmly. Then he jabbed a finger at Marcus. "And you? You should think about it. Someone to go home to, someone who'll make sure you don't turn into one of those burnt-out old detectives who drink themselves to death in a one-room apartment. Trust me, man, that road's shorter than you think."
Marcus chuckled, shaking his head. "You sound like my conscience."
"Call me the friendly ghost of future you," Marvin quipped. "Except I don't haunt, I nag."
That actually made Marcus laugh a short, rough sound that surprised even him. "You're unbelievable."
Marvin smirked, clearly pleased. "See? You can laugh. That's progress. By the end of this ride, I'll have you smiling like a normal human."
"Don't get your hopes up," Marcus said, though the edge in his voice had softened.
The conversation drifted then, from small things to larger ones. Marvin shared stories about his daughter's antics how she once tried to cook pancakes by herself and nearly set the kitchen on fire, how she demanded to dress as a "detective" for Halloween and interrogated the neighborhood kids about their candy.
Marcus listened quietly, his expression unreadable, but something about the warmth in Marvin's voice left an impression. It was a reminder that outside the case, outside the blood and bodies, life still went on. Families laughed. Children grew. People loved.
"Sometimes I envy guys like you," Marcus admitted quietly, eyes still on the road.
Marvin tilted his head. "Guys like me?"
"People who have someone waiting at home. Someone worth all the mess. I don't have that."
For a moment, Marvin didn't answer. Then he leaned back, his tone softer. "Then find it. You've still got time, Marcus. Just don't close the door before you even try."
Marcus didn't respond, but the weight of the words settled in. He kept driving, the city slowly giving way to dimmer streets and quieter neighborhoods.
They fell into a more comfortable silence after that, only broken by Marvin humming some tune under his breath and the steady rhythm of the tires on the road.
Finally, Marvin straightened up, pointing through the windshield. "There. Up ahead. That should be the place, right?"
Marcus slowed the car, pulling up in front of a tall, gray building with worn-out signage. The letters spelling out the company name were faded, the windows lit here and there with a tired glow.
"This is it," Marcus confirmed. "Where George worked."
The two men sat in the car for a moment, the levity of their earlier conversation fading as the reality of the investigation settled back in.
Marvin finished the last sip of his coffee, crushed the paper cup in his hand, and tossed it into the backseat. "Back to business, then."
Marcus nodded, eyes narrowing as he stared at the building. "Yeah. Let's see what his coworkers have to say."
The night seemed to press heavier around them as they stepped out of the car, leaving behind their laughter in the silence of the drive. Ahead lay another layer of George's life one that might reveal whether the victim was truly innocent.