"So what we got?" Julian's voice echoed low, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it again.
The morgue pressed its chill into his skin — air sharp with chemicals, undercut by the metallic whisper of old blood. The lights above hummed, white and unflinching.
Varga lay stretched on the steel bed, the sheet pulled down just enough. Julian's gaze followed the marks he'd seen before. The neck wound — precise, a blade angled clean to silence him quick. No hesitation there. Then lower, across the abdomen, the second wound. Sloppier. A rush job. The knife had been shoved deep and dragged, tearing muscle instead of cutting clean. Almost personal.
He let his eyes rest a moment, not because he needed to — the picture was already printed in his mind — but because repetition had a way of shaking things loose.
The soft shuffle of paper broke the stillness. Sara stood nearby, a long white coat draped over her frame. Her hair was tied back, no nonsense. In her hands, a stack of reports — fresh printouts and scribbled notes. She wasn't looking at Julian, or even at Varga. Her gaze stayed on the page, her mind moving ahead of her voice
Finally she broke the silence, her voice clipped, clinical.
"He was given anesthetics before the killing. Don't ask me for the specific compound—it's still running through the machines."
Julian shifted, slow steps circling to the right side of the table. The harsh white light followed him across the body until he stopped just beside Sara. He leaned closer, eyes narrowing. There it was—a faint puncture on the crook of Varga's arm, almost hidden in the pale flesh.
Sara tapped the folder with her finger. "All the blood at the scene points to three different individuals."
Julian turned his head toward her. "…Three?"
"Yeah. Three. First—Vincent Ganjo. Or, as you like to call him, Varga." She flipped the page. "Second—AB positive. Hector Vinchi. Sixty years old. Deceased already. Car accident, three nights back."
Julian's eyes narrowed further. He let out a dry laugh, more of a scoff. "You're fucking with me, right?"
Sara met his look without blinking, her silence flat enough to cut. He shut his mouth, jaw working, and muttered instead: "What about the third?"
"B-negative. That's all. No name. No match in any system. As of now, nothing."
Julian thought it over, tapping his knuckle once against the steel slab. B-negative. Rare as hell. And yet, his gut was already saying it didn't belong to the killer. He could bet his badge on that. If the bastard went to the trouble of pouring someone else's blood at the scene, then it wasn't a mistake. It was a trail. And their job wasn't to fight it—it was to follow, no matter where it led.
He let the silence hang, then finally asked:
"What's your verdict?"
Sara's eyes didn't leave the corpse. "Anaesthetic first." She tapped the thin red dot on the arm, the faint bruise around it. "He never saw it coming. A sting, then the lights go out."
Julian pictured it—Varga slumping, his body still breathing but useless, the shadow of a figure crouched over him with the syringe.
"Then?" he pressed.
"The throat." Sara's voice was level, clinical. She drew an invisible line across her own neck. "One stroke. Deep. He didn't even have the strength to fight it."
The "camera" in Julian's mind cut to Varga's head snapping back, the spray of red, the sound swallowed by the four hotel walls.
"Plenty of blood to work with," Julian muttered.
"Which they wanted." Sara's eyes flicked toward the imaginary floor. "The canvas. Dragging, pouring, painting. They weren't hiding anything—they were making a stage."
Julian's teeth clicked as he spoke.
"Theatrical bastard."
"And then the stomach." Sara's hand hovered just above the corpse's midsection. "Not necessary. Not the killing blow. Just…" She let the thought trail.
Julian finished it for her, his tone bitter. "A flag. Scene closed. Curtain down."
Silence stretched, broken only by the hum of the refrigeration unit, the faint sting of disinfectant in the air. The white cloth shifted slightly in the draft, brushing over Varga's pale skin.
Julian finally muttered, "Where's the
leader?"
Sara closed the folder with a soft snap. "He went to Hector's family. Dead man's blood doesn't just walk into a crime scene. We'll see if they know how it got there."
Julian gave a small nod, his eyes still fixed on the corpse. "Good. 'Cause right now, all we've got is blood… and a killer who treats murder like art."
The Vinchi apartment felt too small for the weight inside it. Curtains half drawn, dust hung in the beams of light. The clock above the television ticked louder than a heartbeat.
Marina Vinchi sat forward on the couch, a shawl wrapped so tight around her shoulders it looked like armor. Her face was pale, eyes heavy and sleepless, but the tension in her jaw burned with something stronger than grief. Daniel sat beside her, fifteen years old, slumped but restless, hands locked between his knees.
Simon didn't sit. He stood like a shadow at the center of the room, hat tucked under his arm. His voice came steady, practiced.
"My name is Simon Vance. Private detective. I'm assisting in an investigation."
Marina's head snapped up. "Private detective? We never hired anyone."
"You didn't," Simon said simply. "I'm here to understand Hector Vinchi. His habits, his work, his relationships."
Marina's lips pressed thin, confused, suspicious. "What does that have to do with us? My husband is dead. We buried him."
Simon's gaze didn't waver. "That's what makes this difficult. Yesterday, at a crime scene, we recovered blood. It was tested. It matched Hector's."
Marina froze. Her shawl slipped loose, but she didn't notice. Her eyes went wide, glassy. "No," she said, shaking her head. "No. You're mistaken."
Simon continued, unwavering. "Records state Hector died three nights ago. Car accident."
Her chair scraped as she lurched forward. "That's impossible! We saw him—we saw him with our own eyes! Do you know what it's like to touch your husband's hand when it's cold as stone? To stand there and see your son cry over the coffin?" Her voice cracked into something ragged. "Don't you dare stand here and tell me he was anywhere else!"
Daniel stiffened beside her, eyes flicking between them.
"Did you file a police report?" Simon asked.
"No!" Marina snapped. "The police came! They told us it was an accident. What else should we have done? What else could we possibly do?!"
"What exactly did they say?" Simon's tone was flat.
Daniel muttered, "They said he was drunk. Fell asleep at the wheel."
"That's a lie!" Marina erupted. She struck her hand against the armrest with a sharp crack. "Hector never touched alcohol in his life. He despised it! Everyone knew that! How can they spread filth like that about him?"
Simon didn't blink. "Do you have medical records?"
Daniel rose quickly, glad to escape the room. "I'll get them."
Marina's eyes flicked to her son, then back to Simon. "Why are you asking us this? What are you implying?"
Nothing but silence.
The followed air was suffocating. Marina's breathing came sharp and unsteady. Then she turned her fury on Simon.
"You're here to smear him, aren't you? To drag his name through the dirt when he can't defend himself?" Her voice shook but didn't falter. "Is that what this is? You vultures can't leave us alone?"
"Because what you've heard may or may not be true."
Her voice trembled, but she forced the words out. "Are you saying Hector was… killed? That this wasn't an accident at all?"
Simon met her gaze evenly. "Could be. Could not be. But what's certain… someone used Hector's death."
Marina's hand pressed harder against her shawl, as though she could shield herself from the words. "No… no, he wasn't that kind of man. He had no enemies. He was strict, yes, but respected. Everyone admired his work, his principles. People came to this house, colleagues, friends—they all respected him. He lived by rules. He lived clean."
Simon's voice stayed level. "And before his death? Any changes?"
Marina's eyes dropped. "He was… tired. Coming home late. Overtime, he said. Overloaded, but he didn't complain. He never complained." Her voice faltered. "I didn't think—it never crossed my mind—"
"Do you believe anyone could have had a problem with him?" Simon asked.
Marina stiffened. "You're asking if Hector was killed for the man he was? For… for working hard?"
"I'm saying," Simon said carefully, "that someone benefitted from what happened to him."
Daniel returned with the file, shoving it into Simon's hands with more force than needed. Simon flipped through it, scanning. One entry glared back: Lethanox detected. An anesthetic.
He shut the file, voice clipped. "Did either of you do anything that might have led to Hector's death?"
Marina shot up from her seat, fury exploding. "How dare you!" Her voice rose so loud the windows seemed to catch it. "You walk into my home, wave your papers, and accuse us of betraying the man we loved? The man I built my life with?!" Her breath came ragged, but she pushed through it. "We lost him once already. And now you want us to lose him again?!"
Daniel stood halfway, fists clenched, eyes wet but silent.
Simon didn't move. He let the storm crash against him.
Marina's voice broke at last, tears cutting down her face. She collapsed back onto the couch, shoulders shaking. "He was a good man. He didn't deserve this. None of it."
Simon adjusted his hat, his expression unreadable. "What about Elena?"
Marina wiped her eyes hard, fighting for composure. "She's at university. Exams. She doesn't need to hear this nonsense."
"She hasn't done anything unusual?"
"No," Marina said sharply, but the word wavered. "Nothing."
Daniel swallowed, his lips parting as if he had something to say. But the words stuck, locked in his throat.
Simon allowed the silence, then placed the file back on the table. "I can't disclose much. Rules of the case. But also, for your own safety, the less you know, the better." His eyes lingered on each of them. "If we find anything more related to Hector, I'll come back. Personally."
He gave them a final nod. Then he left, leaving Marina staring blankly at the floor, her hand still clutching the shawl like it was the only thing holding her together.