The city looked ordinary from the outside.Morning traffic crawled along the main avenue, horns blaring in short, irritated bursts. People clutched paper cups of cheap coffee, eyes half-closed, shoulders hunched inside worn-out coats. A grey sky pressed low over the buildings, flat and heavy, as if the clouds were too tired to rain.On the surface, it was just another weekday.Adrian Cole stood behind a thin yellow police line, watching the small crowd gather in front of the old apartment building. His hands were in the pockets of his dark coat, fingers curled loosely around nothing. He wasn't cold. The air was mild. But people expected you to put your hands in your pockets when someone had just died, as if grief had a dress code.He watched, and he counted.Twelve uniformed officers.
Three detectives in plain clothes.
Nineteen onlookers, pretending not to stare while staring anyway.
Two paramedics, waiting with an empty stretcher they already knew they wouldn't need.Everyone moved in familiar patterns. Shock. Curiosity. Fear, diluted by distance.No one here knew the victim. Not yet.A policeman near the entrance shifted from foot to foot, tapping a pen against his notepad. New on the job, Adrian guessed. His eyes kept drifting toward the dark doorway, then to Adrian, then back again. He wanted to ask questions but didn't know if he was allowed.Adrian turned his gaze away. The officer relaxed, as if a weight had been removed from his chest."Thought you didn't work mornings," a voice said behind him.He didn't flinch. He simply turned his head.Detective Lara Hayes stepped under the tape, her badge catching a faint glint of dull light. Brown hair tied back in a rough knot, eyes red from lack of sleep rather than tears. The city didn't give its detectives much time to sleep these days."I don't," Adrian said. "You called.""That's because we only invite you for the special ones," she replied. Her tone was dry, but not unfriendly. She stopped beside him, both of them facing the building entrance like they were standing in front of a stage curtain."You read the file?" she asked."I read what you sent," he said. "A woman. Thirty-four. Lived alone. No forced entry. Neighbors heard nothing. Found in her living room at seven fourteen a.m. by the landlord doing his rent rounds."Lara gave him a sideways glance. "And you got all that from the three lines I texted you?""You wrote them," Adrian answered. "You always write more than you think you do."He finally looked at her.Her shoulders were too straight. Defensive. Her eyes were sharper than usual, as if she were bracing for something worse than the last time. A thin scratch on her wrist—fresh, red, not from this scene. No wedding ring, no new jewelry, same coat she'd worn two weeks ago. She hadn't had time to go home and change then either."Bad night?" he asked."Bad month," she muttered. Then she exhaled, a short, tired breath. "Come on. You'll like this one."Adrian stepped under the tape.He didn't like crime scenes. Liking wasn't the right word. But there was a kind of quiet here that he couldn't find anywhere else. The noise of the city faded at the threshold of a dead person's door. Even the air felt thicker, slower, as if time respected the body on the floor more than it respected the living.The staircase smelled of dust and old cooking oil. Walls stained with the fingerprints of years, footsteps echoing up and down. The landlord's attempts at cheap renovation fought a losing battle against dampness and neglect.Third floor. Apartment 3B.A uniformed officer stepped aside as they approached, eyes flicking toward Adrian with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion."He's with me," Lara said simply, and pushed the door open.The apartment was small, but not filthy. A narrow hallway. A coat rack with only one coat hanging from it, a light beige one, too thin for the current weather. No shoes on the floor.Living room straight ahead.The body lay there, on a cheap grey rug.The woman was seated on the floor with her back resting against the side of the sofa, head tilted slightly to the left as if listening to someone who wasn't there. Her eyes were open. Her hands rested on her knees, palms facing upward, fingers relaxed.There was almost no blood.Just a thin dark line across her throat, precise and clean, like a red necklace drawn with a single careful stroke. No splatter on the walls, no chaos, no overturned furniture. A cup of tea sat untouched on the small table in front of her, steam long gone, leaving only a pale ring of dried liquid.The television was off. The curtains were half-open. Outside, the city hummed on, indifferent.Adrian took one slow breath.Neat. Controlled. Intimate."The paramedics say time of death is between midnight and two a.m.," Lara said quietly beside him. "No signs of struggle. No defensive wounds."She paused."And no prints. Nothing obvious, anyway."Adrian's eyes moved across the room, taking in details.A framed photo on the shelf: the victim smiling with two other women, possibly friends or co-workers. A stack of bills neatly arranged on the counter. No open drawers, no mess. The killer had not searched. He had not needed to.On the wall behind the body, there was a painting.Not an expensive one—just a cheap print in a thin black frame. It showed a small boat on a dark lake under a cloudy sky. Calm water. No waves.Under the painting, directly above the woman's head, someone had written a sentence on the wall in thin, black marker.The handwriting was small, careful, almost elegant.SHE DIDN'T SLEEP FOR THREE YEARS.Lara followed his gaze."Landlord says that wasn't there yesterday," she said. "Nor that painting. The walls were bare when she moved in."Adrian stepped closer to the writing, close enough to see how steady the lines were.No tremor. No hesitation.He felt a faint shift inside his chest. Not excitement. Not fear. Something colder. A familiar click, like a lock turning in the back of his mind."Is this why you called me?" he asked."Partly," Lara said. "There's more. Check her hands."He crouched down.The victim's nails were clean. No skin under them, no signs of grabbing anything. Her fingers were slightly reddened at the tips, like someone who had been rubbing them for a long time. On the inside of her left wrist, almost hidden by her sleeve, was a faded row of tiny scars—thin, white lines running parallel to each other.Old attempts. Long healed."She tried before," Adrian said softly. "Alone. Quietly."He looked up again at the sentence on the wall.SHE DIDN'T SLEEP FOR THREE YEARS."Insomnia?" Lara suggested. "Depression?""Maybe," Adrian said. "But that's not what interests whoever wrote it."He stood, straightening slowly. The room seemed even smaller now, the walls closer.Someone had come here. Sat with this woman. Killed her without a fight. Left almost no trace.And then, very gently, arranged the scene."Anything missing?" Adrian asked."Nothing the landlord could confirm yet," Lara replied. "Neighbors say they heard nothing. Cameras in the street don't show anyone suspicious coming in or out. If this is what I think it is…"She didn't finish.Adrian finished it for her."A serial," he said. "Careful. Patient. Someone who plans his time with the dead better than the living plan their own days."Lara's jaw tightened. "We don't know that yet."He looked at the writing on the wall again.Every letter was almost perfectly spaced."People don't start like this," Adrian murmured. "They arrive here."He turned away from the wall and met Lara's eyes."You didn't only call me because of the message," he said. "You called me because of the way the room feels."She hesitated, then nodded once."Tell me I'm wrong," she said. "Tell me this is just one very sick, very organized person. Tell me this isn't going to turn into a pattern."Adrian glanced back at the calm, seated body, the thin red line, the cheap boat on the fake lake.In his mind, something else clicked.He saw not just a dead woman, but an opening move."You're not wrong," he replied, voice steady. "This is a pattern. It just hasn't finished writing itself yet."He took one last look at the message on the wall.SHE DIDN'T SLEEP FOR THREE YEARS.Without meaning to, he imagined another sentence in the same handwriting.A sentence with his own name in it.For the first time that morning, Adrian felt the faintest trace of something like… anticipation."Call me when you find the next one," he said.Lara frowned. "We don't know if there—""There will be," he cut in calmly. "People like this don't stop after one."He slipped his hands back into his pockets."Not when they've just started talking."