The first time Rhea saw Detective Aaran Digvijay in person, he wasn't what she expected.
She had read about him, watched interviews, studied articles where his name appeared beneath headlines about impossible cases solved. His reputation was precise: methodical, ruthless in the pursuit of truth, detached from emotions.
None of the articles warned her about his eyes.
They weren't cold. They weren't detached. They watched people like puzzles with missing pieces. Like things he intended to keep breaking until they made sense.
When he entered her home for the first time, she already knew she would remember every detail: the cut of his coat, the sharpness of his posture, the careful silence between his words.
This wasn't obsession. Not yet. But it was something close enough to catch fire later.
"You're the writer," he said without asking.
His gaze flicked briefly to the bookshelf behind her. Titles in neat rows. Crime. Mystery. Darkness wrapped in fiction.
"I've read your name before."
"And I've read yours," she said, allowing herself a small smile. "More times than you'd imagine."
That surprised him. Not visibly - he didn't move, didn't flinch - but something passed behind his expression like a shadow changing shape.
"I didn't realize I had fans in your line of work," he said.
"Everyone loves a detective," Rhea answered softly. "It's just... most of us prefer ours fictional."
Aaran studied her like she was already evidence, already guilty of something she hadn't confessed to yet.
"You seem calm," he said. "Considering what's happened here."
Rhea let her fingers brush against the fabric of her sleeve. A small, uncertain gesture. Not calculated - not entirely. "Calm is easier than falling apart in front of strangers."
"Smart." His voice held no approval, no warmth. Just fact.
"Would you rather I cry?"
"No." His eyes met hers properly now. "Crying makes people harder to read."
And just like that, she knew she would enjoy this.
The game had already started.
"You're not what I expected either," she said, the faintest tremor softening her tone, as though this mattered to her more than it should. "You seem... kinder in photographs."
He smiled, but not kindly. "That's because I'm not the one writing them."
Silence settled between them again. Not awkward. Careful. Measured. Like two people circling the same secret.
"You can tell me, Miss Rhea," he said finally, notebook untouched in his lap. "Were you writing the ending of this story before we even arrived?"
Her smile was smaller this time. Softer. A little shy, like a girl learning how dangerous it is to admire someone too closely.
"Not yet," she said. "But I was hoping you'd help."