The large wall clock in the investigation office ticked with a provocative regularity, its monotonous sound echoing through the room like a mocking funeral rhythm. Julian sat on his desk—not in the traditional manner befitting a detective, but perched right on the desktop, legs crossed. He held the letter left by "The Weaver" between his index and middle fingers, flipping it with acrobatic skill as if he were maneuvering a playing card in a lavish casino rather than the message of a serial killer. That playful smirk, rested on his face, but his eyes carried a completely different depth—a depth reflecting a bitter internal struggle.
"Julian, stop acting like a child in a circus!" Claire shouted, standing before him, her hand resting angrily on a pile of accumulated files. "We are facing a ghost, and you're entertaining yourself with a letter? How did he know the address? How did he know your name? How did he know you're a 'mind reader'?"
Julian laughed—a light, soft laugh that didn't reach his eyes, which were scanning the room with uncanny mechanical precision, picking up every minute detail. "Because he saw me, dear Claire. Not with his eyes just now, but he saw me entering the room before I even decided to get into the car. He doesn't anticipate our moves; he watches them like a replayed movie—a movie whose ending he already knows."
He straightened up slightly and hopped down from the desk with agility. He walked toward the massive investigation board, where photos of the nine victims were pinned, surrounded by tangled red strings representing suspected links. He pulled out a red pen and drew a circle around the precise "stitching" in their mouths. "Look, Claire. Why does he sew their mouths shut?"
"To keep them from screaming? To instill terror?" Claire asked reflexively, her tone a mix of anger and suppressed fear.
"No," Julian shook his head slowly. "Screaming is useless in isolated places like those. He sews their mouths because they 'talked.' Every one of these victims had revealed a secret on the day before their murder. The killer hates noise; he hates useless talk. He is searching for absolute silence, and we... we are just puppets in the 'stitching' show he is preparing."
As Julian spoke, Dr. Evelyn Grant, the forensic expert, entered the room. A middle-aged woman with calm, firm features, her short gray hair reflected years of experience. She carried a thin file, her gaze holding a blend of respect and skepticism toward Julian. "Detective Julian, Detective Claire, I've finished the analysis of the purple silk," she said in a quiet but weighted voice.
"Go ahead, Dr. Grant," Julian said, pulling the mask of playfulness back over his face. "What surprises do these threads hold for us?"
Evelyn took out a small sample of the silk and placed it under the microscope. "This isn't ordinary silk. It's rare 'Queens' silk, produced in very limited quantities and used in making the most luxurious royal fabrics. It is only sold in one shop in all of London."
At that moment, Police Inspector Thomas Miller entered—a massive man with harsh features and a gravelly voice. He represented the traditional, bureaucratic side of the police force and despised Julian's unconventional methods. "Which shop?" he asked in a commanding tone, his eyes narrowing.
"Finch and Campbell in Bond Street," Evelyn replied coldly.
Julian smiled cryptically. "Very nice. So, our killer has refined taste and a royal budget. That rules out many suspects, Inspector Miller."
Miller ignored Julian's comment and turned to Claire. "Claire, go to the shop immediately. Get a list of everyone who bought this type of silk in the last two months. I want no delays."
While Claire, Evelyn, and Miller discussed the next steps, Julian suddenly felt that familiar prickle behind his ears. The noise of Miller's mind was irritating, filled with thoughts of promotions and bureaucracy, while Evelyn's mind was calm, focused on scientific facts. But there was something else... a strange thought, one that didn't come from any of them, but from the office hallway outside.
(..The leather bag.. Number 30.. The smoke will start now..)
"Claire, get down!" Julian screamed, lunging toward her and pushing her behind the heavy steel desk. He didn't have time to explain.
Exactly one second later, the office window shattered from a strange smoke canister. It wasn't an explosive bomb, but it released a smoke colored purple—the exact color of the threads. Amidst the chaos and coughing, Julian ran toward the broken window, only to see a man in a long coat standing in the street below, looking directly up at the office window. Julian couldn't see his face because of the fog and a mask, but he tried with all his might to "penetrate" his mind. He exerted a superhuman mental effort, until he felt a slight nosebleed.
One thought reached him—clear, profound, and terrifyingly calm:
(..You are always late, Julian.. Go to the British Museum.. Five o'clock.. Do not bring the Serious Beauty with you.. I want us to talk alone.. before the tea gets cold..)
The man disappeared into the fog before Claire could stand up and draw her pistol.
"Are you okay?" Julian asked, wiping the blood from his nose with his scarf, trying to regain his playful mask, though his voice trembled slightly.
"I'm fine, but the office isn't," Claire said, brushing dust off her jacket, her eyes burning with rage. "What did you see? What did you hear?"
"I saw an invitation to dinner," Julian laughed a hollow laugh. "But he insists I go alone. It seems 'The Weaver' admires my style of dialogue more than your marksmanship."
As Inspector Miller barked instructions to secure the area, Julian turned toward the office mirror to see his reflection, but he froze. On the surface of the mirror was a tiny, very precise drawing, etched with incredible speed using diamond or a sharp tool: an hourglass, and the sand inside was rising upward toward the void.
Julian realized at that moment that the killer had been in the office minutes before they had even entered. He had etched the mark and left, knowing the smoke canister would go off at the exact time to make Julian look at the mirror.
"Claire," Julian said, touching the etching with trembling fingers. "He isn't playing with us. He is leading us down a path he drew in advance. The inverted hourglass... he's telling me that my time is running out, or perhaps... that my time hasn't even begun yet."
Amidst this chaos, a young girl entered, her features innocent, carrying a large leather bag. It was Molly Thompson, the new intern in the archives department. She looked terrified by the smoke and the commotion. "Is everyone okay?" she asked in a faint voice.
Claire looked at her suspiciously, but Julian gave a faint smile. "We're fine, Molly. Just another attempt by 'The Weaver' to impress us with his dramatic skills."
At that moment, Julian felt a swift thought pass through Molly's mind: (..The leather bag.. Number 30..)
Julian's panic faded, replaced by a deep state of shock. Was Molly involved? Or was she just another victim in 'The Weaver's' play? Did the number 30 refer to the next victim? Or was it just a locker number in the archives?
This was only the beginning of new complications. New characters had entered the board, new secrets surfaced, and time... time was moving backward for their killer, while Julian was desperately tryi
ng to catch him in the present.