Marcus arrived home that night, and the silence wrapped around him the moment he shut the door. No family. No loved ones. No sound except the hum of his refrigerator. The hallway light buzzed weakly, casting a pale yellow glow over the small space. His apartment wasn't messy like George's, but it was lifeless. It carried the weight of a man who never let anyone in.
He placed a take-out box on the counter and pulled out a beer from the fridge. The refrigerator looked empty aside from rows of bottled water and cheap beer. No fruit. No leftovers. No sense of a life being lived. He popped the cap open and leaned against the counter, waiting for the microwave to beep.
The George Gomez case file sat on the table, unopened. The thick folder looked heavier tonight. He carried it with him and sat down. He flipped through the pages in silence, eyes on the bland details birthdate, workplace, background. He paused when he saw the address of George's parents. Still alive. Still reachable.
Marcus thought of it for a while. Parents often carried answers that no one else could provide. He decided to go there in the morning.
The microwave beeped. He pulled out his food and sat alone, eating in silence with his beer. His thoughts circled back to the crime scene the organs, the heart left intact, the stitched body. A surgeon's work. A monster's patience.
When he finished, he washed his plate, left it on the rack, and dragged himself to his room. He dropped on the bed, staring at the ceiling. "What an odd day," he muttered to himself. His body felt heavy, his eyes stung. He closed them, and the silence swallowed him.
---
Morning came with gray skies and drizzle tapping against the window. Marcus got up early, showered, dressed, and drove to the address listed in George's file. The street was quiet, almost dead. Old houses lined up, their paint faded, gardens overgrown. The air smelled of damp wood and rust.
He parked the car and walked to the door. The house was neat from the outside—painted white, small porch, curtains pulled shut. He rang the bell.
No answer.
He rang again. Silence.
On the third ring, footsteps dragged slowly across the floor inside. The door clicked and opened halfway. An old woman stood there, her face expressionless, hair thin and gray. She didn't ask who he was. She didn't even look at him. She simply turned around and walked back inside, leaving the door open as if she knew he would enter.
Marcus found it strange. No greeting. No reaction. Just silence.
He stepped inside. The house was clean, too clean, but it felt wrong. No family photos except of the old couple themselves. No children. No grandchildren. The living room smelled faintly of coffee and something stale, like air that hadn't been moved in years.
The old man sat at the table, sipping coffee slowly, eyes blank. The old woman joined him. Neither of them acknowledged Marcus, as if he were a ghost.
Finally, the old man spoke without looking up. His voice was cold and sharp.
"You're here about George, aren't you?"
Marcus sat down slowly. "Yes. I'm Detective Marcus Dross, special investigations. You already heard the news?"
"It's everywhere," the old man said. He lifted his cup and sipped again. "The way he died… brutal. People are talking. He's popular now, for all the wrong reasons."
Marcus studied his face. No grief. No sadness. Only a faint trace of annoyance. "He was your son," Marcus said carefully. "Do you… not feel anything about what happened?"
The old woman finally spoke, her voice flat. "He deserved it. He deserved to die like that." She kept her eyes on the wall, refusing to look at Marcus.
The words cut through the silence. Marcus froze for a moment, staring at her. "Why would you say that?" he asked.
"Because it's the truth," she said without blinking. "That man was nothing but trouble. He was not my child."
Marcus tried to keep his tone even. "I need to understand more about George's life. It might help us find whoever did this to him."
The old man chuckled low, almost to himself. "George was a useless brat. He never amounted to anything. He did things… things a man shouldn't do. Disgusting things. Whoever killed him must have seen the same. Maybe they couldn't stand what he was. Honestly, I understand it." He took another sip, calm, detached.
Marcus felt a chill creep up his spine. "You're his father," he said. "Shouldn't you at least want justice for him?"
The old man looked up finally, his eyes cold. "Justice? For George? He was nothing. Don't waste your time."
The old woman added quietly, "Since the day we threw him out, he was dead to us." Her tone didn't rise. It didn't fall. It was simply empty. "Ask his coworkers, or his friends if he had any. We know nothing, because we wanted to know nothing."
Marcus leaned back, unsettled. These weren't grieving parents. These were people who had erased their son long before his brutal death. He thought to himself: What kind of man was George Gomez? And why does it feel like someone chose him on purpose?
The old couple remained still, sipping coffee, staring at nothing. The silence stretched. It was suffocating.
Then Marcus's phone rang. He excused himself and stepped away to answer.
It was Jean, his superior. The voice on the other end was low and tired.
"In George's apartment, we found something. An unknown set of letters. A code, maybe. It's the only thing left behind. No fingerprints. No evidence. Just this."
Marcus rubbed his temple. "Alright. I'll come over."
He hung up and walked back to the couple. "Thank you for your time."
They didn't answer.
He turned and walked toward the door. As he was about to step out, the old man's voice came sharp from behind him.
"Close the door."
Marcus didn't respond. He pulled the door shut, leaving the strange silence behind him.
Back in his car, he sat for a moment, staring at the house. The couple's coldness wasn't normal. Their words repeated in his head. He deserved it. He was not my child.
It left Marcus with more questions than answers.
And one thought he couldn't shake this wasn't just a random killing.
....
Marcus drove through the wet streets, the rain still coming down in thin sheets. The city lights blurred against the windshield, red and white smears of life that felt far away from his world. By the time he reached headquarters, the parking lot was nearly empty. Inside, the hallways were quiet, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly.
He walked into the meeting room. Jean was already there, sitting at the far end of a long table. Around him were several other men and women some detectives, some specialists Marcus hadn't seen before. The air was heavy, filled with the stale smell of coffee and cigarettes.
Jean looked tired, older than usual. He cleared his throat.
"This case isn't simple," he said flatly. "It's already spreading on social media. Everyone's talking about it. We're under pressure. Which means we work fast, and we work carefully."
He reached into a bag, put on gloves, and placed an object on the table. A Bible, torn and stained. He opened it slowly, the pages crumpled, some sticking together. On one page, written in dried blood, was a sequence of numbers:
05-08 / 04-06 / 13 / 03
Jean tapped the page. His voice was low.
"This was found in George Gomez's apartment. The blood is his. DNA confirmed. He wrote this while he was being tortured."
Marcus leaned forward, staring at the numbers. His stomach tightened. "So he left this as a trace? Something about the killer?"
Before Jean could answer, a man sitting nearby spoke. He was young, thin, with sharp eyes hidden behind glasses. Jean gestured toward him.
"This is Jonathan. He's an expert in codes. He'll be working with us."
Jonathan adjusted his glasses and looked at the page. "It's possible George wrote this himself, trying to leave a message. But it could also be the killer's doing forcing him to write something, or writing it in his blood after he was too weak to resist. Either way, it's intentional."
Marcus crossed his arms. "What kind of code is it?"
Jonathan frowned. "Hard to say yet. The sequence could be a A1Z26 Attribute Initials, maybe a Letter Mapping . Those are common among people who like puzzles. But the format slashes, pairs of numbers suggests something else too. Dates, coordinates, or even letters hidden by numerical order. Without context, it's just noise."
Jean leaned back in his chair, rubbing his forehead. "If it's his blood, and he wrote it while being tortured, maybe it's something George wanted us to know."
Marcus shook his head. "Or maybe it's not George at all. Maybe it's the killer's way of playing with us. He's mocking us, leaving pieces of his game behind."
The room was silent for a moment. Everyone stared at the blood-written numbers.
Jonathan finally broke the silence. His tone was calm, but there was something grim beneath it.
"If this killer is leaving codes, it means he wants us to follow. He's inviting us to chase him. And if he's using complex ciphers, it won't just be random it'll connect to the victims, to their lives, maybe even to their flaws. The more we learn about George Gomez, the easier it will be to narrow this down."
Marcus muttered, almost to himself, "So every victim will come with a puzzle."
Jean's eyes hardened. "And every puzzle will lead us to the next body, unless we solve it first."
The room grew quiet again. The numbers sat on the page, dry and dark, but alive in their minds. It wasn't just evidence. It was bait.
Marcus leaned back in his chair, staring at it. The thought clawed at him:
The Hanged Man isn't just killing. He's watching us solve his game.