Perspective: Detective Jiwon An
I replay the footage for the third time.
The warehouse security system was old, almost obsolete, but we managed to recover fifteen minutes of corrupted video.
The timestamp shows 21:17–21:32.
The screen flickers.
Static.
Then a frame appears.
A shadow.
Human height.
Barely visible, but moving with unusual stability.
My heart rate rises.
Not fear.
Recognition.
I lean closer to the monitor.
The figure moves calmly, shoulders relaxed, posture precise. Not frantic like most aberrants.
One step.
Pause.
Another step.
Controlled.
This behavior pattern—the precision—is familiar.
It matches only one aberrant I ever investigated.
But he died four years ago.
Killed in a lab fire.
I swallow. My throat feels dry.
Something about the silhouette triggers a deep, uneasy memory.
Something I don't want to remember.
"Detective?"
Officer Mireen steps inside my office.
She hesitates. Her eyes shift to the screen.
"That figure… do you think it's one of them?"
"One of the trained ones," I say, voice low.
"Then it's worse than we thought."
I nod.
My head starts aching.
Not from stress.
From a growing sense that I'm missing something obvious.
Something close.
Mireen hands me a sealed evidence bag.
"This was under the victim's clothes. A fragment of fabric."
I examine the torn piece.
White.
Smells faintly of disinfectant.
High-thread cotton—expensive.
Not from the victim.
A memory hits me like a controlled shock:
My husband wears shirts made from similar fabric.
White.
Clean.
Plain.
I shake my head immediately.
Ridiculous thought.
Irrelevant.
Coincidence.
Still, there's a strange chill under my skin.
"Any results on the blood analysis?" I ask.
Mireen nods. "Mixed. Human type O. And another sample with incomplete markers."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning the second sample is… not fully human."
My stomach tightens.
The room suddenly feels smaller.
"You okay, Detective? You look pale."
"I'm fine."
I force my breathing into a stable pattern.
I am not fine.
But I can't show that.
"Let's continue," I say.
But my mind keeps replaying the silhouette from the video loop.
Steady.
Controlled.
Calm.
Exactly like someone I see every day.
Perspective: The Husband (Main Character)
I hear her before I see her.
Her footsteps are always steady.
Predictable.
Almost rhythmic.
It's one of the reasons I can regulate my pulse when she enters a room.
But tonight her steps sound different.
Shorter.
Faster.
Uneven.
She's troubled.
I wipe my hands dry again—even though they're already dry—and step out of the bathroom at the exact moment she opens the front door.
She stops in the doorway.
Her eyes scan the room for less than a second.
I read micro-expressions automatically.
A habit I never told her about.
Her pupils are constricted.
Jaw tense.
Shoulders slightly elevated.
Detective mode.
I soften my face by two percent.
Enough to show warmth but not too much.
She hates unnatural expressions.
I've learned that over the years.
"You're late," I say gently.
"New case," she answers.
She removes her shoes without looking at me.
Her voice is controlled.
Over-controlled.
Something is wrong.
She walks to the sink to wash her hands.
Her fingers tremble slightly before steadying.
She never trembles.
I feel a cold sensation at the base of my spine—instinct-level warning.
"What happened?" I ask.
She dries her hands without turning around.
"A clean kill," she says.
Her tone is sharp.
Precise.
My pulse increases.
I suppress it.
"A very clean kill," she repeats.
Now she turns.
Her eyes study me like I'm a witness.
Or a suspect.
"You okay?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
"Fine."
She lies.
She never lies.
My chest tightens.
"What kind of case is it?" I ask lightly.
Her gaze sharpens.
She hesitates before answering.
"One of the Type-G cases."
My heart rate spikes.
I force a slow breath.
"Are you scared?" I ask.
"No."
She looks straight at me.
Her voice is steady, but her posture isn't.
"Just… confused," she adds quietly.
Her eyes remain fixed on mine.
She suspects something.
Not enough to confront.
But enough to sense a pattern.
Her instincts are too sharp.
Too sharp for my safety.
Too sharp for her safety.
She walks past me, heading toward the bedroom.
But before she closes the door, she stops.
"Do you remember where you put your white shirt?" she asks casually.
My pulse spikes again.
White.
Shirt.
Evidence fragment.
The timing is too close.
I keep my expression controlled.
"I think it's in the laundry basket," I say evenly.
She nods.
But I can tell she doesn't believe me.
The door closes.
My entire body goes cold.
She is connecting details.
Faster than expected.
Faster than safe.
I exhale slowly and lean against the wall.
Aḷden's warning echoes in my mind.
"Both cannot survive the same room forever."