Morning came too soon.
I woke to the sound of my phone buzzing on the nightstand — another day, another flood of messages from the precinct. The sun hadn't even fully risen, yet the city already hummed with noise, like it was impatient for the next tragedy.
I rubbed my eyes and sat up. My mother's face flashed through my mind — pale but alive, steady. That thought grounded me. She was stable. Breathing. And for now, that was enough to get me out of bed.
When I got to the precinct, the usual chaos greeted me: phones ringing, papers flying, exhausted cops mumbling over cold coffee. The familiar soundtrack of madness.
Alex was already there, sitting at his desk. His long white hair was tied back neatly, his dark red eyes fixed on a file in front of him. He looked like he hadn't moved since yesterday — perfectly composed, unreadable as always.
"You didn't have to come in early," I said, setting my coat on my chair. "You were with me all night at the hospital."
He looked up, expression calm. "And you didn't have to come in at all."
I snorted. "You know me. I can't sit still."
Alex didn't argue. He rarely did. Instead, he handed me a folder. "You should see this."
Inside the folder were photos from the latest crime scene. The Smileball Killer had struck again — a different borough this time. Victim: female, mid-thirties, schoolteacher. The details were as horrifying as ever. Strangulation. No forced entry. And there it was again — the yellow smile ball, placed delicately in her hand, blood smeared across its painted grin.
I stared at the image for a long time. "Four victims now. Still no connection."
Alex leaned back, eyes thoughtful. "There's always a connection. Maybe not between victims… but maybe between scenes.*
I frowned. "A pattern of scenes. That's an interesting phrase."
He gave a faint smirk. "You're rubbing off on me."
I chuckled under my breath, though the sound didn't last long. My mind was already spinning through theories. Random killings. Different ages, backgrounds, neighborhoods. Nothing linked — not even the methods. The killer was methodical in his unpredictability. That's what made it so maddening.
Alex watched me, quiet as ever. I could tell he was analyzing every expression I made, as if mapping my thoughts in real-time. He'd always been that way — observant to the point of discomfort. But it helped.
"Alright," I said, pulling on my jacket. "Let's go. Maybe the scene still has something the others missed."
He stood without a word.
The drive was long and quiet, the kind of silence that wasn't uncomfortable but thick with thought. The city blurred past — gray buildings, cold streets, and the faint drizzle of rain against the windshield.
When we reached the scene, the house was already surrounded by police tape. The crime scene techs nodded as we approached. I flashed my badge, Alex following just behind, hands tucked into his coat pockets.
The body had already been moved, but the room still smelled like metal and death. I scanned the area — the kitchen. Ordinary. Too ordinary. No sign of struggle, no forced entry. A quiet life cut short.
Alex crouched by the table, eyes darting to the small, bloody handprint on the edge. "She reached for something," he murmured. "Maybe tried to grab the knife, but he stopped her before she could."
I frowned. "No defensive wounds, though."
"Which means she trusted him," Alex said. "Or… she never saw it coming."
I exhaled, staring at the smile ball now sealed in evidence. Its plastic grin glared back at me — mocking, taunting.
"This guy's playing a game," I muttered. "A game without rules."
Alex stood. "Maybe that's the point. To make sure we can't predict him. To make sure we question everything — even ourselves."
His words lingered in the air, sharp and unsettling.
We left the scene late in the afternoon. My head throbbed, my stomach growled, and the rain had started falling harder. I wanted to stop by the hospital to see Mom, but visiting hours were over. So instead, I drove home. Alex didn't even ask — he just got in the car like it was already decided he'd come along.
By the time we reached my apartment, night had settled. I tossed my keys on the counter, kicked off my boots, and went straight for the fridge. Empty — aside from a couple of take-out boxes and a single bottle of beer.
Alex stood by the doorway, arms crossed, surveying the kitchen like it was a crime scene. "Do you ever cook?" he asked flatly.
I gave a half-shrug. "Does reheating count?"
He sighed, low and barely audible, then walked past me. "Move."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
He started opening cabinets, checking drawers, locating pans and utensils I'd forgotten I owned. "You've been living off take-out for weeks. Your blood pressure's probably a disaster."
"Wow, thanks for the diagnosis, Doc."
"Sit," he said, already grabbing ingredients with surgical precision.
I sat — mostly because I was too stunned not to. "You know how to cook?"
He didn't answer at first, just moved around the kitchen like he'd done it a thousand times. Efficient. Quiet. Focused. The smell of garlic hit the air first, then the soft sizzle of oil.
"My father taught me," he said finally, tone neutral. "He believed cooking built patience. Control. I didn't understand it then. I do now."
I leaned back in the chair, watching him move — sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, the scar on his cheek catching the warm kitchen light. There was something oddly peaceful about it, seeing him do something so human.
"So what's the plan, chef?"
"Your favorite," he said simply. "Spaghetti Bolognese."
I blinked. "You remember that?"
He gave a faint shrug. "You ordered it every Friday when we were kids. Some habits don't change."
That made me smile — a real one this time. "You remember everything, don't you?"
His lips curved slightly. "Only what matters."
The aroma filled the apartment — rich, warm, nostalgic. For the first time in weeks, the place smelled like home, not just exhaustion and reheated leftovers.
When he finally set the plates down, I couldn't help but grin. "If you're not a detective anymore, you could open a restaurant."
"Too many people," he replied, sitting across from me. "Too much talking."
"Yeah," I said, twirling the pasta. "You'd probably end up interrogating customers about their life choices."
He smirked — just slightly. "Probably."
We ate in silence for a while, but it wasn't awkward. The food was incredible — balanced, rich, comforting. It made me realize how long it had been since I'd tasted something that wasn't made in a microwave.
"This is… damn good," I said between bites.
Alex didn't look up. "I know."
I laughed, shaking my head. "Cocky bastard."
"Accurate bastard," he corrected calmly.
After dinner, we sat on the couch, the city lights flickering through the blinds. Rain pattered softly against the window. The room felt… still. Safe.
I leaned back, beer in hand. "You didn't have to do all that, you know."
He looked at me, those red eyes glinting faintly. "You needed it."
"Yeah, well, maybe I did." I took a sip, staring out the window. "It's weird, you know. This job — it eats everything. Your time, your health, your sleep. Sometimes, I wonder if there's even a point to trying to live normal anymore."
Alex was quiet for a long moment. Then he said softly, "There's always a point. You just forget it when you stop taking care of yourself."
I looked at him, surprised by the warmth in his tone. "Since when did you become the voice of wisdom?"
He glanced at me sideways. "Since you started losing yours."
That earned another laugh from me — tired, genuine. "You really are the only one who can get away with saying that."
"Because I'm right," he said simply.
I didn't argue. He was.
The rain grew heavier outside, tapping against the glass in rhythmic bursts. I turned on a low lamp, soft yellow light spilling across the room.
Alex leaned back, crossing his arms. "You should get some sleep."
"Yeah," I muttered, "I'll try."
He stood, gathering the dishes quietly. "I'll stay. In case something happens. You shouldn't be alone tonight."
I wanted to protest — tell him I was fine — but I didn't. Because truth was, I wasn't. Not after the past few days. Not after my mom's scare. Not with a killer still out there, smiling through his crimes.
So instead, I said, "Alright. You can take the couch."
He nodded once, without argument.
As I turned out the lights, the room fell into quiet darkness, save for the hum of the city beyond the window.
For the first time in a long time, I didn't feel alone. And as sleep finally came, I realized something — The world outside could keep spinning, killers could keep smiling, chaos could keep spreading…
But as long as Alex was there, steady and unshakable, I'd find my footing again.
Tomorrow would be another day. Another case.