The factory gates loomed ahead, slick with rain, reflecting the dim glow of the streetlights. Marcus and Marvin pulled up, the engine of their car humming softly in the quiet night. They didn't speak for a moment, each absorbed in their own thoughts, the distant hum of machinery and faint chatter from inside the building filling the silence.
"Looks like this is it," Marcus finally said, his voice low.
Marvin nodded, grabbing his coat. "Yeah. Time to see where George spent most of his life."
They stepped out, rain still clinging to their shoulders. A uniformed guard at the gate raised a hand, eyeing them carefully.
"ID, please," the man said, his tone neutral but sharp.
Marcus handed over his badge without hesitation. Marvin did the same, offering a small nod. The guard studied them for a moment, then waved them through.
Inside, the factory smelled of oil and metal, mixed with the faint tang of something chemical and acrid. The fluorescent lights flickered occasionally, casting long, jittering shadows across the cavernous workspace.
As they walked past the rows of machines, the workers' eyes followed them. Whispers floated on the air soft, uncertain. Some faces were curious, others distant, a few seemed almost… wary. Marcus noticed it and leaned slightly toward Marvin, whispering.
"They know why we're here. Look at them," he said, nodding toward a cluster of men standing near a conveyor belt.
Marvin followed his gaze, whispering back, "Well… can you blame them? The news was everywhere. Dying like that… hanged, everyone knows about it. Imagine how they must feel."
Marcus didn't answer, keeping his eyes sharp on the workers as they continued forward. The murmurs followed them, and some workers even ducked behind machinery, pretending to check a gauge or adjust a switch.
Suddenly, a man stepped in front of them. He was taller than most, with graying hair and a stern expression. He wore a factory jacket and carried a clipboard. His eyes flicked between them.
"You two are here about George Gomez, right?" the man said, his voice flat, controlled.
Marcus didn't hesitate. "Yes. We're just here to ask a few questions—about who he was close to, if he had friends or coworkers he connected with."
The man's lips pressed together in a thin line. He let out a quiet sigh, glancing down at his clipboard as if gathering his thoughts. "George… didn't really have friends," he said finally. "Even after all these years working here, he… he didn't connect with anyone. Always quiet. Kept to himself. You'd think someone that… devoted to work would find someone to talk to. But… no."
Marcus nodded slowly, absorbing the words. "So… he didn't talk to anyone? Didn't socialize at all?"
"Not really," the man admitted. "He did his work, kept everything precise. Never complained, never praised. Just… existed in the background."
Marvin let out a low whistle. "Lonely man. But… devoted, yeah. God, even in death he kept his distance from everyone." He shook his head slowly. "Strange."
Marcus's expression hardened. "There's more to it. I've never seen anyone so… devoted to his duties, yet completely disconnected from people. Most people, even the shy ones, have some kind of connection. Lunch buddies, someone they chat with about sports, about family. He… had nothing. Something about that feels off."
The factory manager frowned. "I don't know what to tell you. He kept himself to himself. No enemies, no friends. Just… work."
Marvin glanced around the dim factory floor. "And the others? Did anyone notice if he… I don't know, acted strangely? Did he talk to anyone at all outside of work matters?"
The man shook his head again. "No. He was polite, but distant. Never complained. Never boasted. Never celebrated. You'd see him quietly fixing a machine or organizing files, then leaving when his shift ended. That was George. Nothing more. Nothing less."
Marcus felt a chill run down his spine, though he didn't say it. There was something unnerving about a man living a life so detached so utterly alone in the middle of a bustling factory. Marvin, noticing the slight tension, leaned toward Marcus, his voice softer now.
"We should check the church next," he suggested. "If he was really devoted like this… maybe someone there knew more about him. Someone outside of work."
Marcus nodded, his gaze lingering on the factory floor, where shadows moved like silent ghosts among the machines. "Yeah. I think that's the next step."
The drive back to the car was quiet. The rain had picked up again, drumming against the roof with a soft, steady rhythm. Marcus kept his eyes on the wet streets ahead, hands gripping the wheel, the hum of the tires against asphalt blending with the distant city noises.
Marvin broke the silence, tilting his head toward Marcus. "You ever think about people like him? Living like that… no friends, no family to miss them… just work? It's… sad."
Marcus exhaled slowly, his jaw tight. "Not sad. Strange. There's something about a person who isolates themselves that way. Usually, there's a reason… something they're hiding, or something they've lost."
Marvin nodded, frowning. "Yeah. Something about it… it doesn't sit right."
They reached the car, getting in, and Marcus started the engine. The factory's lights faded in the rearview mirror, leaving only the dark, wet streets ahead.
"Do you think he… maybe provoked it somehow?" Marvin asked, glancing at Marcus. "I mean, the Hanged Man… he doesn't kill randomly. There's always a reason."
Marcus remained silent for a moment, letting the words settle. "Possibly. But if he did… it wasn't obvious. Not to anyone here. That's what makes this… worse. If there's no one close to him, no connections, no enemies… then why him? Why now?"
Marvin didn't answer immediately. He stared out the window at the rain, watching the reflections of streetlights dance on the puddles. Finally, he said, almost to himself, "That's the thing with people like him… they seem normal. Quiet. Invisible. But there's always something hiding beneath the surface. Something dark. Something waiting."
Marcus's eyes narrowed, his grip on the wheel tightening. The streets stretched ahead, quiet and empty, as if the city itself was holding its breath.
The night pressed down around them, heavy and suffocating. Somewhere, out there in the shadows, the Hanged Man waited. And Marcus knew they were closer to the edge of the truth than they realized, even if the darkness ahead was just beginning to reveal itself.
.....
The church doors creaked as Marcus and Marvin stepped inside. The familiar scent of old wood, wax, and faint incense wrapped around them like a cold shroud. The dim light of hanging lamps painted the pews in pale, uneven yellow, making shadows twitch along the walls.
Just like in the factory, eyes followed them. The few parishioners scattered across the benches whispered quietly, glancing from one to another. Some curiosity, some fear or maybe judgment lay behind their eyes. Marcus noticed it immediately, the same uneasy feeling he'd felt at George's workplace.
A nun appeared at the end of the aisle, her habit crisp and her movements deliberate. She walked toward them with a calm certainty, her eyes sharp beneath her veil.
"I'm Sister Sarah," she said, her voice low but firm. "If you're here about the recent case the brutal death of… one of our visitors I am willing to help as much as I can."
Marcus stepped forward, his tone direct. "We need to know everything about George Gomez. How he was here, who he knew, anything that might explain why this happened."
Sister Sarah nodded, gesturing for them to follow. As they walked down the aisle, her voice soft but steady filled the silence.
"George was a regular visitor here for nearly ten years," she said. "Almost every week, three times at least. He would sit quietly, pray, and leave. Always respectful. He gave generously half his salary every time he could. Quiet, kind, devoted… but reserved."
Marvin exchanged a glance with Marcus. "And did he ever… have friends here? Someone he was close to?"
Sarah shook her head. "No. He was always alone. In his free time, he stayed here, sat in the same chair…" She pointed toward a bench near the altar. The wood gleamed faintly under the light, polished from years of use. "…that's where George would sit. Alone. Every time."
Marcus stepped closer, his eyes scanning the chair. "Did he ever speak about his parents? About his family? If he was that devoted… surely his family would have influenced him."
Sister Sarah stopped walking, turning to face them. Her expression was serious, almost somber. "He said he never had a family. That he was alone. An orphan."
Marvin whispered, leaning slightly toward Marcus, "So… he's an orphan?"
Marcus's jaw tightened. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "No. He's not. I viewed his file I visited his parents this morning… real parents, not adopted. Not an orphan."
Marvin's eyes widened. "Then… he lied to her? To the church?"
Marcus didn't answer immediately. He ran a hand over his face, trying to process the implications. "Why would he do that?" His voice was low, tense. "Why tell someone he was alone, when he clearly wasn't? Maybe he wanted people to see him differently… maybe he wanted pity, or… or to hide the truth. Something about him… it doesn't add up."
Sarah watched them closely, her brows furrowed. "He didn't talk about his past," she said quietly. "Not much about anything outside of the church. Sometimes he would mention work, but even then… he kept it vague. Never complaints, never joys, never family. Always alone, always quiet."
Marvin muttered under his breath, "Quiet… yeah, quiet like a shadow."
Marcus didn't reply, his eyes fixed on the polished floorboards. He felt a tightening in his chest, the kind that came when you saw a life that was… almost unreal in its isolation. "And yet," he said finally, "he had parents. He lived with them, at least for some time. Yet to everyone else… he was an orphan. He constructed a life where no one really knew the truth. A mask. But why?"
Sarah's lips pressed into a thin line. "He never complained, never asked for attention. Always gave, but never shared. It's strange… almost unnerving, if I'm honest. You'd think someone so kind… so devoted, would have a human connection. But George… he had none."
Marvin's voice was quiet, but edged with curiosity. "Do you think… maybe he wanted it that way? To hide from people? Or maybe he… expected people to reject him if they knew the truth?"