It was half past one in the afternoon at Le Petit Café. The bar hummed with its usual crowd, jazz notes floating through cigarette smoke while ice clinked against glass. The rich scent of aged whiskey mingled with cigar smoke, creating that distinct afternoon bar atmosphere. From a corner booth, muffled laughter punctuated the lazy afternoon air.
Making his way to the bar, Carl spotted Devin behind the counter, mixing drinks with practiced precision.
At Carl's approach, Devin's movements faltered slightly—just enough to notice—the cocktail shaker trembling almost imperceptibly in his grip. His knuckles whitened against the metal, betraying his tension.
"What happened to your face?" Carl studied the constellation of bruises around Devin's eyes and mouth.
"Took a bad fall," Devin mumbled, keeping his head down and avoiding eye contact. His fingers fidgeted with the bar tools, creating soft metallic clicks.
"Dark ale, please."
As Devin pulled the draft, his movements were steady enough, but Carl could sense the underlying strain. Taking a sip of his beer, Carl tapped his finger against the glass. "Tell me about Thomas Yamia. Has he been around lately?"
Devin's movements stiffened, a slight tremor running through his right hand. The bottles clinked together as he reached for them. "We hang out sometimes. He's been in three times this week." His voice was barely above a whisper, strain evident in every word.
"Specific times?" Carl pressed, his suspicion deepening.
Devin grabbed a cloth, methodically wiping down an already spotless glass. "Monday around nine-twenty, Wednesday about ten-thirty, and same times yesterday and Wednesday."
"When did he leave?"
"Just after one in the morning." Devin served another customer a cocktail, his movements mechanical. "Between quarter and twenty past, can't say for sure." His eyes darted toward the wine cellar before quickly looking away.
Sudden laughter erupted from the bar, breaking their tension. Carl noticed Devin's shoulders lose some of their rigidity.
"Word is you two were more than just friends."
Devin's hand froze mid-motion, the bar spoon quivering slightly. After a heavy pause, something died in his eyes. "We were together. Once."
"Once?"
"Yeah." Devin ducked his head, busying himself with reorganizing bottles that didn't need moving.
"Why'd it end?"
"Differences." The word barely carried across the bar.
"Thomas has a temper?"
"Yeah, he's not exactly known for his patience." Devin's hand unconsciously touched the marks on his face before quickly dropping away.
Carl's eyes fixed on the bruises. "Did he do that to you?"
"No, just an accident." Devin shook his head, still avoiding Carl's gaze. His fingers drummed an nervous rhythm against the bar top.
"Any idea where I might find him?"
"Probably at the Wilson construction site. That's where he works." Devin's voice suddenly went flat.
"Where's he staying?"
"13 Tracy Road."
The sound of breaking glass echoed from somewhere in the bar, followed by complaints from patrons. Devin turned away, almost grateful for the distraction, but Carl had already caught the flash of fear in his eyes.
As Carl stood to leave, he stopped a server by the door, handing over his card. "If anything unusual happens here, call me immediately."
Devin watched Carl's departure, releasing a shaky breath. His gaze drifted toward the wine cellar, now eerily quiet. His hand paused mid-wipe, unease settling in his gut like a cold stone.
A patrol car wound through several blocks before pulling up at the Wilson construction site. In the security booth sat Old Bob, who practically jumped to attention when he spotted Carl.
"Back again, Detective?" Old Bob's enthusiasm was almost palpable.
"Looking for Thomas Yamia."
"Got the day off." Old Bob grinned, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. "Probably out raising hell somewhere, knowing him."
His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Everything I told your colleagues is God's honest truth. Thomas—he's a killer. That couple in Nightdew Gardens? That was him. And they weren't his first." Old Bob's eyes took on a zealot's gleam. "He ain't human. Made some kind of deal with the devil himself."
"You witness any of these alleged murders?" Carl's expression hardened.
"He's a demon wearing human skin!" Old Bob's face flushed with agitation. "No matter how well he hides it, the truth always shows through."
Carl remembered Thomas's eyes and felt an involuntary chill run down his spine.
The hallway of Oak Apartments at 13 Tracy Road reeked of mildew and neglect. Wallpaper peeled from the walls in long strips, revealing water-stained plaster underneath. The elevator hadn't worked in months, its rusted gate sporting a yellowed "Out of Order" sign.
Carl pressed the buzzer for 304. After several attempts, an irritated voice finally responded. "What?"
"Thomas Yamia? Detective Carl. We met recently."
"What's this about?" Thomas's voice dripped with boredom.
"Got some case-related information to discuss."
"I'm busy. Come back later."
Carl exhaled slowly. "Someone's named you as the killer. I'd appreciate your cooperation."
"Let me guess—Old Bob running his mouth again?"
"Can't discuss informants."
"That old coot loves his conspiracy theories." Thomas muttered, then the door creaked open.
He stood there, silver hair catching the dim hallway light, eyes still fierce and challenging. Carl noticed fresh bandages wrapped around his left arm and chest.
"Got questions? Ask them." Thomas's tone could have frozen water.
Carl's eyes fixed on the bandages. "What happened?"
"Work accident." Thomas leaned against the doorframe. "But that's not why you're here."
"You left the bar after one AM, and the security camera in the alley mysteriously died right after." Carl studied Thomas's face. "There was also a dead cat found back there."
A muscle twitched in Thomas's jaw, but his expression smoothed over quickly. He shrugged. "What's a malfunctioning camera got to do with me? And street cats die all the time in the city."
"Where'd you go after leaving?"
Thomas paused, just a beat too long. "Went by the construction site, then stopped at Devin's."
Carl recalled the forensics chief's words—the murders might not have happened at Nightdew Gardens, and the timeline could be off. The thought that there might be multiple killers made Thomas even more suspicious.
"You and Devin aren't together anymore?" Carl shifted tactics.
Thomas's lip curled. "Feelings are complicated. Some things don't end clean." He paused. "Besides, I was with Devin that whole night. He'll back me up."
"And if his story doesn't match yours?"
Carl let the question hang in the air, then asked, "Those injuries—really from work?"
"Detective," Thomas's voice took on a dangerous edge, "unless you've got a warrant, we're done here. This friendly chat is over."
Carl met Thomas's gaze steadily. "For now. But we'll talk again."
Thomas's only response was a cold smile before he slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
Standing in the hallway, Carl stared at the closed door, his suspicions multiplying. He knew they were barely scratching the surface of this case.
Days bled into weeks, and the trail grew colder. A month later at Lansnet Central, they were no closer to solving the murders.
The conference room was thick with cigarette smoke and desperation, cheap coffee going cold in styrofoam cups. Half-drawn blinds let afternoon light slice through the haze, creating tiger-stripe shadows across the table.
Carl stood in the corner, unconsciously running his fingers over his holster—an old habit from his rookie days.
His eyes moved between three whiteboards: the first showed a web of red lines connecting suspects, with the victims' photos at the center, edges yellowing like old bruises; the second tracked the timeline, key moments marked but crucial gaps labeled with angry red question marks; the third mapped locations, with Le Petit Café circled and surrounded by cramped notes threatening to overflow the margins.
Chief Sam massaged his temples, a fresh forensics report spread before him. His bloodshot eyes betrayed too many sleepless nights. "Any progress on the camera malfunction?" Exhaustion and barely contained frustration colored his voice.
"Tech's still drawing blanks," Alexander set down his coffee, leaving a dark ring on the papers beneath.
"A month of nothing." Chief Sam's fist crashed onto the table, making cups jump. The room's tension ratcheted up another notch as officers exchanged uneasy glances.
"What about the night shift that evening?" The chief's fingers drummed an impatient rhythm on the table.
"Mass food poisoning, apparently," Alexander's frown deepened. "Hit too fast to get replacements in. Convenient timing, if you ask me." Suspicion threaded through his words.
The room fell into suffocating silence. Two press conferences had yielded nothing. The reward money had jumped from five to twenty thousand, but only brought in dead-end tips. Carl stared at the thirty-sixth conflicting witness statement on his desk, feeling the pressure building like a thunderhead.
"The brass is breathing down our necks," Chief Sam stood at the window, afternoon light haloing his graying hair, deepening the shadows on his face. "If we don't crack this in the next few days, the commissioner's taking over." The veteran cop's tone carried the weight of what that meant.
The conference room door suddenly burst open, making everyone jump. Coffee sloshed in cups as a young officer stumbled in, tie askew, sweat beading on his forehead.
"Sir!" He gasped out, struggling to catch his breath. "Something's happened at Le Petit Café! One of the employees—"
Chief Sam's sharp gaze cut to Alexander, then to Carl. A silent understanding passed between the three. Carl was already moving, his shoes clicking against the floor as he hit the emergency response button. The station's alarm began to wail, marking the start of what they all knew would be a very long night.
In the waiting area, Dani sat wringing her hands, knuckles bone-white. She jumped to her feet when Carl entered, her face ashen. "Detective, there's been an incident at the bar."
He poured her water, the surface trembling under the harsh fluorescent lights. Turning to the plainclothes officer beside her, he asked, "What are we looking at?"
"I was on Devin surveillance," the officer lowered his voice, eyes scanning the room. "Possible homicide at the bar. Other units are in pursuit of the suspect. Dani insisted on speaking with you specifically."
Carl checked his phone, finding a string of missed calls—each one a silent alarm bell.
"Let's talk while we move." Carl gestured them to follow as he strode toward the underground parking, his footsteps echoing in the concrete stairwell.
"Since your investigation started, I've been watching for anything unusual," Dani matched his pace, her voice unsteady. "Devin's been acting strange lately, going down to the wine cellar at midnight..."
"When did you first notice?" Carl's tone sharpened, his gaze intent.
"Around eight-forty this morning. I went to clean the wine cellar early, and as I reached the door—" She drew a shaky breath. "I heard shouting. Devin and Thomas were arguing. Thomas yelled something about Devin being crazy, then there was this crash—sounded like a wine rack going over. Then..." She hesitated, fear flickering in her eyes. "Thomas ran out covered in red. Wine, I thought at first."
"You're certain it was Thomas?" Carl started the cruiser, the engine's growl filling the garage.
"Three years working there—I know his voice. And..." She swallowed hard, barely audible now. "After he left, I heard Devin crying. Not normal crying—he was... broken. When I looked in, he was holding something wrapped in a bar towel. Like... like he was cradling a baby."
"A baby?" Carl's grip tightened on the wheel, dread settling in his gut.
Police tape already cordoned off Le Petit Café, officers working crowd control as onlookers gathered. Carl flashed his badge and made straight for the wine cellar, the air growing heavier with each step down.
The cellar reeked of spilled wine mixed with blood and something else—something that made his neck hair rise. Emergency lights cast harsh shadows across toppled racks and shattered bottles. Devin sat slumped against the wall, dried blood on his clothes, staring into nothing while a crisis negotiator tried unsuccessfully to reach him.
Carl nodded the negotiator back and crouched beside Devin. "Remember me? Detective Carl. We talked before." He kept his voice steady, trying to pierce through Devin's fog.
Devin's head turned mechanically, confusion flickering in his vacant eyes, but no words came.
"Can I see what you're holding?" Carl gestured to the bundle in Devin's arms, noting the dark stains spreading across the towel.
Devin's arms suddenly tightened around the bundle. "He killed her!" His voice cracked, unnaturally high. "He did it!"
"Thomas?" Carl raised his voice slightly, trying to anchor Devin to reality.
Devin shook his head violently, curling tighter into himself.
"Devin," Dani knelt beside them, her voice surprisingly steady. "Let the detective help. Please."
Under Dani's gentle coaxing, Devin's grip finally loosened. Carl carefully took the bundle, peeling back one corner. His stomach lurched—a dead cat lay inside, its green eyes frozen wide in accusation. Most disturbing was its body, twisted like a wrung dishrag, bones clearly broken in multiple places.
The method of killing... Carl's mind immediately jumped to the dead cat found in the alley days ago—identical in its grotesque positioning.
"Detective." A forensics tech handed him an evidence bag containing a bloody knife. Carl examined the blade—twelve centimeters long, partially serrated, well-polished. It matched the murder weapon specifications perfectly.
"What else have you found?"
"Still processing the scene." The tech started to continue when another officer rushed in.
"Sir, we found Thomas's car in the back alley." The officer's expression was odd. "But... there's something strange."
Carl followed him out. Thomas's car sat in the shadows, but what made everyone pause was the dozen or so stray cats perched precisely across its hood and roof. Several officers tried shooing them away without success.
Most striking was a large orange tabby standing on the roof. It sniffed the air deliberately, then turned to fix Carl with an unnervingly intelligent stare. The message in those eyes was clear: 'This isn't your business. Stay out of it.'
As one, the cats began moving in the same direction. The orange tabby gave Carl one last look—a look that made him feel less like he was facing a cat and more like he was being judged by something far more ancient.
When the cats disappeared around the corner, Carl realized his hand was still on his weapon. He took a deep breath, trying to shake off the inexplicable unease. Night had fallen, streetlights casting weak pools of yellow light that seemed to emphasize the shadows rather than dispel them.
"Let's process this." Carl turned to the forensics team, fatigue edging his voice.
Officers swept their flashlight beams through the car windows, cutting through the darkness inside. The night pressed in around them, carrying a lingering tension—as if the cats had left behind something unseen but palpable.
"This car's factory fresh," Forensics Lead Louis muttered, frowning. "No wear, no dirt, like it just rolled off the lot."
Carl stood back, puzzlement deepening. A pristine car for a man on the run? Something wasn't adding up.
Rapid footsteps echoed off brick walls. A pursuit team officer staggered into view, face ghost-white, uniform soaked in blood.
"Thomas... he's gone!" The officer gasped between breaths, terror and rage warring in his voice. "Jack and Mark... he killed them both..."
Ice slid down Carl's spine. He clenched his fists, fighting for calm. "Issue an all-points bulletin immediately. Deploy every available unit. Expand the search radius!" His commands cut sharp and clear through the night air.
They rushed Thomas's apartment—Flat 3, 13 Tracy Road. Breaking down the door, Carl immediately noticed signs of multiple lock changes, the mechanism suspiciously new.
"What was he trying to keep out?" Carl wondered aloud.
An antique box against the bedroom wall caught his attention. Intricate patterns covered its surface—not mere decoration, but symbols that seemed to hold meaning. Inside lay a collection of carefully preserved artifacts, each with its own historical notation.
"Bag everything for evidence," Carl ordered, but his eyes lingered on the artifacts. Something about them felt wrong—as if they carried a darkness of their own, secrets better left buried.
Two days later, tension filled the station's conference room like smoke. Outside, storm clouds hung low, raindrops tapping against windows like impatient fingers.
"These artifacts belong to Andrew Michel," Forensics Chief Howard pushed his glasses up, face grave in the projector's glow. "They're from Leads Town."
The names hit Carl like a physical blow. Michel. Leads Town. Memories of the antique dealer surfaced—the Michel family's shadowy reputation in Leads Town.
Before Carl could process that connection, Howard continued, "DNA analysis shows three distinct profiles—Thomas, Andrew Michel, and an unknown third party."
"Three people?" Carl frowned. "You're telling me these artifacts, centuries old, have only been handled by three individuals? That doesn't track."
Howard nodded, concern evident in his expression. "There's more. The murder weapon—the knife—it has the unknown party's DNA, plus Thomas's, Devin's, and the victims'."
Silence fell over the conference room, heavy with unspoken questions. Chief Sam's fist suddenly crashed against the table, making everyone jump.
"The case is clear! Thomas is our killer. Full manhunt!" The Chief's voice boomed through the room, as if volume alone could drown out the doubts.
But something inside Carl resisted. Years of detective work had taught him to distrust anything that seemed too neat. The rain outside intensified, matching his growing unease. He stood slowly, his gaze steady and sharp, like trying to pierce through fog.
"Sir," his voice remained calm but firm, "I think we need to dig deeper." He paused, scanning the room. "Too many pieces don't fit—the camera failure, the dead cats, Thomas's unclear motive. There's something larger at play here. I can feel it."
The room fell silent except for the increasing drumbeat of rain. Just as the tension peaked, the door burst open. A junior officer stumbled in, pale as chalk, clutching a trembling file.
"Detective! We've decoded Daisy's notebook!" He spread out a page showing an intricate design—a snarling tiger's head surrounded by complex markings.
"What is this?" Carl looked to Alexander, question in his eyes.
The veteran inspector hesitated, sighed, then spoke slowly. "That's the Tiger Shadow emblem."
"The same mark was on the bottom of that box in Thomas's apartment," the officer added.
"Tiger Shadow..." Carl repeated softly, a chill running through him. The old gentleman's stories about cats and tigers swirled in his mind—the orange tabby's knowing look, Thomas's predatory eyes. Everything seemed to point toward something unspeakable. The air in the room felt suddenly thick, even the rain sounding unnaturally distinct.
Alexander rose slowly, his weathered face showing a concern Carl had never seen before. His fingers tapped an unconscious rhythm on the table, like counting down to something inevitable. Finally, he drew a deep breath and surveyed the room.
"Listen carefully," his voice dropped low and grave, "this just got a lot more complicated than we thought."
"Should we alert Counter-terrorism?" A senior officer cut in.
Alexander shook his head, his tone measured but firm.
"Not yet. We move too fast, they'll know we're onto them. The Tiger Shadow isn't your typical criminal organization. They're followers of ancient prophecies, trying to complete some kind of ritual. Something dangerous."
Carl noticed the inspector's hands trembling slightly—a flash of fear in eyes that had seen everything in thirty years of police work. A creeping dread settled over him, like a massive shadow falling across the room.
"SWAT's on standby," the duty officer reported. "Special ops is ready to move. We've got checkpoints across the city, increased patrols in key areas."
"What about Devin's protection detail?" Alexander asked.
"Not good, sir," Gold replied. "He's either huddled in corners like a frightened animal or muttering 'He killed her' over and over. Can't get anything coherent out of him."
Carl felt an invisible weight pressing down. He walked to the whiteboard, gesturing at the evidence. His voice was firm.
"We can't ignore these connections. I recommend forming a special task force to investigate the Tiger Shadow's background and current activities."
"Enough!" Chief Sam cut him off, barely contained rage in his voice. "The case is clear. Thomas is our killer. Our job is to bring him in—fast!"
Carl stepped back, startled. He'd never seen the Chief lose control like this. More disturbing was the unmistakable fear he caught in both the Chief's and Alexander's eyes.
"This case," Chief Sam stood, his gaze hard, "ends here. Everyone follows orders. No unauthorized investigations."
Oppressive silence filled the conference room. Carl stared out the window at the pounding rain that blurred the city beyond. He couldn't shake the feeling that something massive was approaching, something that would swallow all their certainties whole.