The office was silent except for the faint hum of the lamp on his desk. Ethan sat hunched forward, sleeves rolled past his elbows, the pale skin of his forearms standing out against the ink-black wood. Around him, the air smelled of paper and something metallic—a ghost of tension lingering like blood in a dream.
He spread the photographs out in a slow, meticulous arc: men in crisp suits, eyes glassed over; hotel rooms scrubbed of life yet screaming with death. Each scene was a puzzle piece that refused to fit. His gaze drifted to the small evidence bags—tiny glass animals, delicate, almost absurd against the brutality of the crime scenes.
He opened one, sliding the photo closer. A fox. Another—an owl. Then a sparrow, wings caught mid-flight. Each figurine no bigger than his thumb, shimme
