Zone B, David Walker''s house.


    “Martha? Why are you here so early?” David asked, his voice cracking.


    “Teacher had something urgent.” She let the broom fall against the wall with a faint clatter. Her gaze darted to the broken mug on the floor and Johan beside it before returning to David. Her tone sharpened as she added, “Why are you fighting this stranger? And…is Mom home?”


    David’s gaze dropped. The weight of her question forced his head down, his shoulders heavy as he approached his daughter. Placing his hands gently on her shoulders, his lips parted to speak, but no words came out, just the sharp, acrid scent of alcohol on his breath.


    Martha instinctively flinched, recoiling as her nose curled in disgust, but it was brief. Her sharp mind pieced things together, and panic lit her features.


    "It can’t be. It can’t be," she whispered, her voice breaking as her legs threatened to give out. She stumbled upstairs toward her mother’s bedroom, her chest tightening. Her wide eyes glistened with terror, refusing to blink.


    David followed closely behind her, his steps heavy with guilt and dread.


    Meanwhile, Johan struggled to his feet, gingerly touching the cut on his upper lip. The sharp sting of pain, oddly enough, brought a moment of clarity, a strange kind of solace. He let out a shaky breath and turned his attention to the mess beneath him.


    Picking up the broom, Johan began to sweep the broken mug fragments and wipe the splashes of coffee and blood from the floor.


    His thoughts spiraled. Is this my fault? For believing people are capable of understanding one another? Why did I take that goddamn job? If I hadn’t, I could stay apathetic, like when I hear the news. Now… now I feel like a killer.


    Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision, and spilled down his cheeks in silence. He didn’t bother wiping them away.


    Johan leaned the broom against the wall and stood still for a moment, staring at the now-spotless floor as though searching for something invisible—his sense of relief.


    Sighing, he headed for the door, and just as his hand touched the handle, Martha’s cries echoed through the house, sharp and heart-wrenching. Johan, taken by surprise, froze for a moment, then faintly smiled.


    It all starts from here.


    He stepped outside, inhaling deeply. The cool air hit his lungs like a purifier, a stark contrast to the suffocating tension inside the house.


    <hr>


    Meanwhile, Zone B, 21st Street, Ryan’s apartment:


    Guns drawn, they entered cautiously.


    The apartment was a disaster—drawers ripped open, papers scattered across the floor.


    Dust clung to the stale air, and a forgotten mug sat on the table; its contents had turned sour, adding a faint bitterness to the atmosphere.


    In the center of the living room lay Ryan, the alleged lover, twisted unnaturally in his own pool of blood, his face pale, eyes half-open, and his expression frozen, crafting a haunting stare.


    Evelyn stepped closer, narrowing her eyes, her brows furrowed as she crouched to check his breathing. But as she leaned in, she noticed something disturbing: his throat had been slit, the wound almost identical in width to Abigail''s.


    Bruises marred his body, clear marks of blunt force, likely from bare fists.


    Her head recoiled slightly. Double murder? Her eyes flicked around, searching for Eric, but he wasn’t there.


    Instead, he was storming through the apartment, room by room, checking closets, peeking under beds, and scanning every shadow for a hidden figure. Then, faint voices echoed from the bathroom. His heart quickened as he raised his gun, kicking the door open with a loud crash. To his surprise, it wasn’t a suspect; it was an orange cat. Startled, the feline bolted past him, aiming for the front door. Unbelievable. He shook his head before continuing to secure the apartment. Checking the windows next for a possible escape route, but they had iron bars. He let out a sigh of relief, as no other potential exit was found.


    He returned to the living room and found Evelyn standing outside on the covered walkway, her hand reaching out to the gray sky. He stepped toward her. "Did you call for backup?" he asked.


    Evelyn lowered her hand, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. "Yes," she replied, her voice weak.


    Eric reached into his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He offered her one, and she accepted, placing it between her lips as he struck a lighter, igniting the tip for her.


    Taking a long drag, she exhaled the smoke slowly, as if releasing her sorrow, her voice trembling as she noted, "Most people are rotten by default, factory setting." A hollow chuckle escaped before she narrowed her eyes. "I’m tired of this."


    Eric’s expression softened. His gaze fell on the people walking below, watching. He spoke quietly. "This is the beginning of your career. The hardest part."


    Her vision blurred, the weight of his words sinking in, but she spoke back only internally. It will always be hard. I don''t want to accept this as a routine occurrence. I don''t want to.


    While their minds were in turmoil, they stood there in silence, guarding the front door, before the sounds of sirens grew louder, slicing through and pulling them out of their distorted thoughts.


    <hr>


    Meanwhile, at Amber Beans:


    Two friends sat at an outdoor table on the far side, sipping tea. The fresh scent of mint wafted through the air, soothing their moods as they casually bounced between topics. Their faces flickered with every emotion, from hysterical laughter to empathic sobbing. One had a burn mark beneath his left eye; the other, Nathan, a striking figure with an easy charm, occasionally broke their conversation to discreetly glance at the women passing by, his gaze trailing them until they disappeared from view.


    “About that girl you met the other day—the one who ghosted you,” the scarred man began, consuming his tea absently. “What’s your plan?”


    "Not sure," Nathan replied, his voice drifting. "She’s the woman of my dreams. She fears God, that one," he said, his voice softening. His gaze drifted as if conjuring an image. In his mind, Evelyn stood before him, radiant in a wedding dress.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    The scarred man clicked his tongue, and the sound echoed, breaking Nathan out of his reverie. “She’s a detective, you know? Saw her this morning in the alley.”


    Nathan’s head snapped toward him, his eyes widening and brows shooting up. “What? No way. She told me she was a teacher.” His voice cracked; a mixture of shock, confusion, and anger.


    His friend let out a long breath, shaking his head. “I’m telling you, she’s a detective. Probably lying to keep you off her trail. Honestly…” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "She’s defying God, an apostate. Women have their place at home, maybe nurses or teachers. Not detecti..."


    Nathan cut him off, slamming his fist on the table, causing tea to spill. His jaw tightened as he gritted his teeth, cursing under his breath. "That bitch. I’ll make her pay."


    The scarred man leaned back, watching Nathan’s anger unfold with a sly smile. "Oh, you sure will," he said, then his expression darkened. "But before that, Little Sammy said he has a better plan."


    <hr>


    Hours later, near Ryan’s apartment:


    Evelyn and Eric leaned against the cold metal of their car, watching as Ryan’s body was loaded into the coroner’s van.


    The air had turned thick with the scent of wet asphalt as raindrops began to splatter against their jackets. The street was quiet, save for the hum of idling engines and the faint sound of rain hitting the car''s roof as well as the ground.


    They waited in silence for the patrol officers to bring any shred of good news—a witness, a lead, anything.


    Eric, sensing her state of mind, glanced up at the clouds and quipped, “The sky’s spitting on our worthlessness.”


    But Evelyn didn’t reply. She didn’t even seem to hear him. Her gaze was distant, her mind replaying their interaction with David, over and over, analyzing every detail, every facial expression. Then she muttered, “Was it guilt? Shock?”


    Eric lowered his gaze to her, his eyes softening. “Don’t bother, not until we confirm his story.”


    “And why’d he give us the address?” she asked, her voice quiet, barely audible over the soft patter of rain.


    Eric huffed a dry laugh. “Finally snapped out of your bubble, huh?” His gaze locked with hers, noticing the slight tremor in her pupils and the way her hair clung to her face, dripping with the now heavy downpour. He waited for her to say something before clicking his tongue in frustration. “Don’t give me that look.”


    With a resigned sigh, he swung the door open and climbed in. Evelyn followed.


    The tires splashed against the wet pavement as they pulled away, heading toward downtown, Zone H.


    <hr>


    Two hours later:


    The rain had stopped, leaving only the lingering dampness in the air as they found themselves at the entrance of downtown. This was the city’s pristine heart, the safest, where the rich lived behind towering skyscrapers and vast corporate headquarters, a place where patrol officers outnumbered the residents.


    Evelyn leaned her head against the window, watching the clean streets and children playing carelessly, unbothered by the need for parental supervision. She slipped on her earphones, cranking the volume up to the max. The harsh, aggressive notes of metal music blasted through, vibrating through her chest and filling the car with a pounding rhythm that made Eric glance at her every now and then.


    As they neared the police headquarters, the noise grew louder. The roar of a crowd filled the air, angry voices rising in protest at the entrance. They shouted accusations of incompetence, their chants ringing out against the police force’s failure to contain the Red Hand’s growing power in the city''s other zones.


    Eric slowed the car, nudging Evelyn awake as he parked just before them.


    As soon as they stepped out, journalists swarmed, microphones shoved in their faces. “What’s the future of Brimstone (Zone K)? After retreating and allowing the Red Hand…” one reporter began, but Eric pushed through, gripping Evelyn''s hand briefly as they made their way inside.


    Before the journalists could follow, police officers forced their way through, aggressively clearing the area. Tear gas grenades erupted, sending acrid smoke into the air.


    The screams of protestors and innocent bystanders surged as the tear gas burned the eyes of those caught in its path. Evelyn’s lips curled in disgust. Where was this violence in Brimstone? What a joke. Anger boiled from within as she shook her head, but it wasn’t enough to calm her down.


    She stormed inside the building, slamming the door shut with a resounding bang. The remaining officers, startled, glanced at her in unison.


    “Eric, Evelyn, come.”


    A demanding voice cut through the tension. It was their superior, Captain Thomas Harris, waving them over.


    The moment they stepped into his office, a heavy, cloying scent of perfume hit them. Floral, unmistakably feminine, it lingered in the air, mixing with the sterile smell of paper and old furniture. Beneath it all, there was something warmer, something earthy. Evelyn’s eyes flicked to the corner of a slightly open drawer, catching a glimpse of white lace poking out. Her body stiffened, exchanging a glance with Eric, who seemed to notice it too. Their lips thinned into a straight line, and a silent understanding passed between them. They both turned their gaze, glaring sharply at the captain as they took their seats.


    Unfazed, Thomas lowered the blinds, leaned back in his chair, and smirked. “Well, let’s hear it.”


    Evelyn leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. “We still don’t have much so far, except...”


    “Tututu. I don’t want to hear that,” Thomas interrupted, waving his finger dismissively.


    Evelyn gritted her teeth, her hands balling into fists as she raised them in frustration, but before she could speak, Eric jumped in. “We’ve got a prime suspect, and we’re waiting on the video analysis team to give us something. We’ve narrowed down the time of...”


    “What are your instincts?” Thomas cut him off, his voice sharp.


    Evelyn sighed, standing abruptly, her chair scraping harshly against the floor as she strode out. “Restroom. I’ll be back.”


    Eric didn’t give Thomas much chance to focus on his partner. “I think it’s the husband. He’s got the motive, everything. Ryan Colls, the lover, was beaten with bare hands. That suggests a fight. The suspect has bandages on his hands.”


    “And his wife?” Thomas raised an eyebrow, uninterested, tapping his fingers on his desk.


    “I think he killed her,” Eric continued, his voice firm. “Then he tried to cover it up by removing her organs, trying to make it look like some sort of cult ritual.”


    Thomas hummed, dismissing Eric with a lazy wave as he focused on his phone, texting his secretary.


    As Eric left, he spotted Evelyn in the corridor. He called after her, raising his hands and tilting his head in frustration. “Don’t do that.”


    “Do what?” she replied, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth, betraying her innocence.


    <hr>


    Later, in Zone A:


    Johan left his office at midnight. The streets were deserted, the only sounds breaking the silence were the low growl of his engine and the steady chirping of nocturnal insects like cicadas and crickets that thrived in the green spaces of Zone A. “No clients today,” he reminded himself, driving toward his home (Zone G).


    As he neared Amber Beans, a figure in a hoodie caught his attention, walking alone in the dim light. His brow furrowed as he squinted for a clearer view. It was a girl. His foot slammed the brake, bringing the car to an abrupt stop. The figure froze, her posture tense, ready to flee the moment Johan stepped out.


    He adjusted his car’s mirror, angling it toward a lamppost nearby, and her face was reflected—it was Martha Walker. His breath hitched, and his eyes widened as he flung the door open.


    But before he could speak to her, she bolted in the opposite direction, her screams shattering the stillness of the night. Johan gave chase, his footsteps pounding against the pavement as porch lights flashed on one by one. Neighbors peeked through windows, phones in hand, recording the commotion, yet no one dared to help.


    “Stop screaming! It’s me!” Johan shouted, his voice strained as he finally caught up to her. Grabbing her shoulders, he forced her to stop. “It’s me, the detective from this morning.”


    Martha gasped, clutching her chest as she collapsed to the ground, leaning heavily against the cool brick wall of a nearby house.


    “I thought I was gonna die,” she exhaled, her voice shaking.


    Johan frowned, catching his breath as he straightened. “If you’re so scared, what are you doing here at this hour?” he asked sharply.


    “I… I was going to the police post. I don’t have a… phone to call. So I…” she stammered, her words breaking into pieces.


    Johan crouched beside her, his tone softening. “Is everything alright?”


    Martha’s eyes glistened, tears spilling onto her cheeks. Her voice cracked as she whispered, “I think my dad is… the killer.”


    Johan froze, his hands trembling on her shoulders. “Why do you think that?”


    A faint, sharp sound pierced the tension, like a gasp cut short. Both their heads switched toward the source—a phone, its lens glinting under the glow of a window, capturing their every word and movement.