Rustle. Clatter.
The sound of paper against paper pulled Olivia out of half-sleep. Her hand twitched toward the desk before her mind even caught up. A sigh slipped through cracked lips — dry, tired, frayed from too many nights that bled into mornings.
"Three hours," she muttered, glancing at the clock. "Three hours of sleep. I should get a medal. Or a therapist."
Her chair scraped the floor as she stood, half-tripping over a pile of case files that had grown like weeds overnight. "Damn it! This is a pure mess ! " she hissed, steadying herself. Sheets fluttered across the floor — names, photos, autopsy notes.
The investigation board loomed across the dim-lit room, a battlefield of photos, red strings, and sticky notes. Every face there stared back at her silent, accusing. Names crossed out. Names circled. Victims who'd lost everything except a whisper of justice clinging to her walls.
"Good morning, Olivia," she mumbled to herself. "Welcome back to hell."
