The morning broke gray and heavy, a thick London fog swallowing the city whole. Detective Harland Price sat in his car outside Scotland Yard, the radio murmuring with static and faint weather reports. He hadn't slept much — the call from Michael Rowe still echoed in his mind.
"It's Eleanor Marks… she killed Martin…"
And then the line went dead.
He had told himself it was probably a prank. Rowe was known for dramatics, after all — a journalist with a taste for conspiracy and self-destruction. But something about the panic in his voice had felt real. Too real.
Harland switched off the radio and stepped out into the mist. His partner, DI Patel, was waiting by the entrance, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in hand.
"You look like hell," Patel said, handing him the cup.
"Feel worse," Harland muttered. "Rowe's gone missing. No one's seen him since last night."
Patel frowned. "What, you think something happened to him?"
Harland didn't answer. He pulled out his phone and opened a photo that had arrived that morning — an unmarked envelope left on his desk. Inside was a single Polaroid.
Michael Rowe, standing inside a rain-slick telephone booth, eyes wide, terror frozen on his face.
No timestamp. No signature. No message.
Just the photo.
Patel leaned over his shoulder. "Jesus… where'd this come from?"
"Don't know," Harland said, slipping it back into the envelope. "But it was waiting for me when I got in."
Patel looked uneasy. "You think Rowe sent it?"
Harland shook his head. "No. He wouldn't have had time. Someone wanted me to see this."
They drove to the area near the telephone booth on Westminster Road. Police tape fluttered weakly in the wind. The booth stood empty now, its glass streaked with grime and raindrops. The street around it was quiet — commuters rushing past, oblivious.
Harland crouched, studying the ground. Something glinted near the drain. He reached for it — a coin, old and tarnished, but beneath it, he spotted something else: a faint, almost invisible smear of blood.
He looked up. "Call forensics. Get me the CCTV footage for this street, last twelve hours."
Patel nodded and stepped away. Harland stayed crouched, staring at the booth. Something was wrong — too clean, too arranged.
Then he saw it. A small scrap of paper wedged between the booth's frame and the glass. He pulled it free, careful not to smudge it. The handwriting was elegant, looping — too deliberate to be rushed.
It read:"The city eats its own, Detective. I'm only helping it digest."
Harland felt the chill crawl up his spine. The handwriting was familiar — he'd seen it before, in briefing memos, interdepartmental notes, even handwritten reports.
It was Eleanor Marks'.
He stood there in silence, the paper trembling slightly in his hand as realization struck.
Patel returned, holding up her phone. "Sir… CCTV's gone. Every file from last night's feed has been corrupted."
Of course it had.
Harland looked back toward Whitehall, the fog rolling thick and unbroken over the rooftops. For the first time, he understood what Rowe had meant. Eleanor Marks wasn't just a name. She was inside everything — the system, the city, the law itself.
And she was watching.