“Don’t—” he said. I looked at him blankly. “Don’t think about it,” he continued. “Whatever that old woman said—dump it. Don’t let it root itself in your head. We’ve got a case now. That’s what matters.” I nodded, though my chest still felt tight.“Aren’t you going to ask what happened?” He didn’t look at me. “I shouldn’t have to ask. You should be telling.” I hesitated. “Spill,” he said. “Barry—the site contractor—was murdered last night. And—” I told him everything. When I finished, the car was no longer moving. I hadn’t noticed when he pulled over. He stared ahead for a long moment before exhaling slowly. Then he turned to me. “Why didn’t you call me?” “I—I tried to talk to Michael—” “Michael isn’t me.” I dropped my gaze. “I was scared. I didn’t want to drag you into my mess.” His voice softened. “It wasn’t your mess. You didn’t do anything. Guilt won’t save you—solutions will.” I nodded. “So what now?” “First, I need to know you’ve told me ever

Kai WonThe night had dragged Kai into a quiet obsession. The city outside his studio was a blur of rain-slick streets and flickering neon, but inside, all that existed was the glow of the monitor. Surveillance footage from last night’s gallery incident played on loop. Jones, moving with a tense precision, confronted Lewis. The fight unfolded in slow motion under Kai’s watchful eye: the flick of a hand, the defensive block, the twisting of limbs, the soundless shuffle across the marble floor. Every second burned into his mind. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his temples. The weight of it was suffocating. Not the fight itself—he could understand anger—but the familiarity of Jones. The way he moved, the almost imperceptible gestures, as if he belonged somewhere else, somewhere Kai couldn’t quite place. Kai had painted him before. Not once, not twice—but dozens of times, each painting an echo from a past life he could not explain. And now, seeing him in flesh and blood, in m

Marie The silence between us had weight. Not the comfortable kind. Not the kind that wraps around you like safety. The kind that sits in your lungs and refuses to let you breathe properly. I stood outside Jones’ apartment for a full minute before knocking. My hand hovered longer than it should have. Pride told me to leave. Anger told me to demand answers. Something softer told me to just walk away before I got hurt. I knocked anyway. The door opened slowly. He looked tired. Not physically—though there were faint shadows under his eyes—but the kind of tired that settles deeper than sleep can fix. His jaw tightened slightly when he saw me. “Marie.” Not warm. Not cold. Careful. “You weren’t answering my calls,” I said. He stepped aside without responding.I walked in. The apartment felt different tonight. Not messy. Not unfamiliar. Just… heavy. Like something had shifted in the air and refused to leave. He closed the door behind me. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said quiet

Jones leaned back in his chair slowly. His apartment was too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes every small sound louder than it should be — the fridge humming, traffic passing outside, the faint ticking of the cheap wall clock above the kitchen door. He didn’t feel angry. That was the worst part He felt… removed. Like he was watching his own life from across the room. His phone buzzed. Unknown number. He didn’t answer. It stopped. Buzzed again. This time he picked up. “Hello?” Static. Then a click. No voice. He lowered the phone slowly, staring at it. Someone was testing the line. Or confirming it worked. He tried calling the lawyer Max mentioned. Voicemail. He tried again. Voicemail. He texted. No reply. He opened his messages and scrolled through news alerts. It didn’t take long. CONTRACTOR FOUND DEAD AT PRIVATE SITE. POLICE QUESTION KEY INDIVIDUAL. INSIDE SOURCES SUGGEST INTERNAL DISPUTE. He didn’t need to open the articles to know who that “key individ

POV: Johnny Johnny didn’t drink when he worked. Not when something felt off. The office in his house was dim, a single desk lamp casting a hard cone of light over scattered paper files, printed stills from surveillance footage, and a corkboard nailed with photographs. Barry. Jones. The site layout. The elevator shaft. Johnny leaned back in his chair, remote in hand, eyes locked on the screen. The footage replayed again. And again. And again. He wasn’t watching Jones anymore. He was watching the environment. Timing. Silence. Blind spots. The elevator corridor flickered on the screen — the timestamp blinking 23:47 before glitching forward three seconds. Three seconds. Too clean to be random. He rewound. Paused. Zoomed. The elevator had been declared non-functional that night. According to the maintenance schedule, a technician had been dispatched after multiple complaints. And according to police records — which Johnny had access to through a favor owed — the t