07:32 AM | N.P.U. Headquarters, Metro City
Morning cut through the blinds like a scalpel, slicing Adrian's office into strips of gold and shadow. Cold coffee sat untouched on his desk, a forgotten casualty of another night spent chasing ghosts that didn't have the decency to stay dead.
He hunched over the case files, eyes raw from forty-eight hours of reading the same names over and over. The Hello Kitty bandage on his cheek was a stark, almost absurd contrast to the shallow graze it covered. Too childish. Too vivid. Too her.
A sharp knock fractured the silence.
"Come in," he rasped.
The door opened without hesitation. Elias entered carrying a manila folder heavy with consequence, the way someone carries a bomb they've already decided to detonate. His expression was carved in stone, the kind of stone that had given up on forgiveness.
"We need to talk," Elias said, closing the door behind him. "About your partner."
Adrian lifted his head, fatigue weighing down every movement like gravity that had suddenly gotten heavier. "What about her?"
Elias crossed the room and dropped into the chair opposite Adrian. No small talk. No ease. Just gravity and the weight of things that needed to be said.
"I pulled her psych evaluations," he said, sliding the folder across the desk. "After last night? Yeah, I pulled them. Filed a request that probably put me on every watchlist in the system."
Adrian's hand hovered over the folder. The label read: Psychological Profile Agent "Aveline" [REDACTED].
"Elias"
"Just read it," he cut in. His voice wasn't angry, which somehow made it worse. "Please."
Adrian opened the folder.
The first page read clinical and detached, the kind of language used when someone wants to explain horror politely, like the horror might be less offensive if you used a pleasant tone.
SUBJECT: Agent "Aveline" [Last Name Redacted]
EVALUATION DATE: [REDACTED]
EVALUATOR: Dr. Helena Cross, Ph.D., Clinical Psychology
SUMMARY:
Subject demonstrates patterns of emotional detachment, lack of empathy, and interpersonal manipulation consistent with high-functioning antisocial personality disorder (psychopathy spectrum).
Views relationships transactionally, individuals assessed for utility, not intrinsic value. Exceptional operational efficiency in high-stress environments masks absence of genuine emotional response.
NOTABLE OBSERVATIONS:
No genuine emotional bonds observed or reported
Frustration when operational variables deviate; zero remorse for harm caused
People consistently viewed as tools, obstacles, or assets
Manipulation skills: advanced; victim awareness: minimal
Smile and eye contact used to facilitate compliance, not connection
ASSESSMENT: High-functioning psychopath. Recommended for roles requiring emotional detachment and tactical precision. Not suitable for positions requiring empathy, team cohesion, or ethical nuance.
C.R.I.M.E DIVISION RECRUITMENT STATUS: APPROVED. Traits align with mission requirements.
Adrian's hands trembled. Page after page repeated the same conclusions with the monotony of a funeral bell:
"Lack of genuine emotional response…"
"Views relationships as transactional…"
"No capacity for empathy…"
"High-functioning psychopath…"
Elias leaned over his shoulder, his voice quiet and careful, the way someone talks when they're diffusing a bomb and they're not sure which wire is actually the right one.
"Every evaluator notes the same patterns," he said. "C.R.I.M.E didn't reject her for this. They recruited her because of it."
Adrian's throat tightened. The words felt like they were being said in a language he used to understand.
"So she's… diagnosed?" he asked, though the answer was already clawing at him from inside.
"Not officially," Elias replied. "Too controlled. Too good at masking. But," He paused, choosing his words with the precision of someone walking through a minefield. "Psychopaths don't feel love. The closest they get to intimacy is ownership. Possession. Control."
The word hit like a punch to the solar plexus.
"What are you trying to say?" Adrian asked, though the answer was already written on his face, in the way his fingers unconsciously touched the Hello Kitty bandage.
Elias sat back down, shoulders heavy. "Unless you want to become her possession, her trophy, her asset, her thing, you keep your distance. She's effective. Useful. Essential, even. But she's not human the way we are. And pretending otherwise will get you killed."
Adrian touched the bandage on his cheek, the one Aveline had applied with clinical precision, her fingers almost gentle. She gave me this. Took care of the wound. But it means nothing. Just… efficient wound care?
"She just gave me a bandage like a partner," he said, defensive, the way people sound when they're trying to convince themselves and the person they're talking to at the same time. "Like she… cared."
"Because you're useful," Elias shot back, not unkindly. "The second you're not? You're irrelevant. Or worse, you become what she wants to own. What she can keep and control and dissect when the novelty wears off."
Silence filled the room like smoke.
Adrian stared at the psych evaluation, the clinical language describing the woman he'd been working alongside, bleeding alongside, trusting alongside: High-functioning psychopath. Ownership, not love.
Elias's voice softened, and that made it somehow worse. "I'm not saying don't work with her. Just don't trust her. Not the way you're starting to."
Adrian began to reply. "I'm not"
"You are," Elias interrupted, and there was sadness in his voice, the sadness of someone who'd seen this play out before, probably with people he liked. "Looking for humanity there will only get you hurt. Or worse, it'll make you like her."
He stood, chair scraping against linoleum. "Dursley's apartment. Nine o'clock. Don't be late."
The door closed. Adrian remained alone, staring at the folder, at the bandage on his cheek, at the truth that had been sitting across from him in cars and hallways and mission briefings, smiling that warm, disarming smile that had apparently learned to look human but had never learned to be human.
09:00 AM | En Route to Dursley's Apartment, South Metro
The drive was suffocating.
Aveline sat in the passenger seat like a statue carved from something colder than ice. Adrian picked her up from the curb at the designated location, punctual as always. Her coat remained pristine despite the drizzle misting the streets, somehow, water didn't dare cling to her.
"You sleep okay?" he asked, straining for casual, for normal, for anything that might make this feel less like driving alongside a loaded weapon.
"Eight hours," she replied, and made an effort to turn toward him like normal people did. "That's good. Sleep is important."
It sounded rehearsed. Because it was. But she was trying.
"No reason. Just… making conversation."
She watched the city pass, then forced herself to look back at him. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. A week ago, she would have simply observed and cataloged. Now she tried something else.
"You're worried," she said, and her voice carried something almost like gentleness. "About Yuki. That's… normal."
It wasn't quite right. The delivery was slightly off, like an actor who'd studied the script but never lived the part. But she was making the attempt.
Jesus Christ.
Silence returned heavier than before, pressing down like a weight.
"About last night," Adrian said finally, unable to stop himself. "The gun. Twice. You drew on Dursley twice."
She turned to look at him, and her expression was perfectly composed, exactly what guilt should look like. Regret. Concern. She'd learned it so well it almost worked.
Almost.
But Adrian had seen her at the elevator. Had heard the clinical assessment. Had watched her contemplate Dursley's death with all the emotional weight of a shopping list. So when she reached over and placed a gentle hand on his arm, he could see it for what it was: performance.
"I made an error," she said softly, and her voice carried genuine remorse, practiced, perfect, flawless. "I overreacted. I'm sorry."
Adrian knew it was a lie. The hand on his arm was warm. The apology was perfectly timed. But beneath it all, he could feel the machinery. The calculation.
"You're learning," he said quietly.
"For you," she replied, and squeezed his arm. "I'm trying to be better."
It was the perfect thing to say. And it might have even been partially true.
Right. Counterproductive. Elias was right. He'd been right about everything.
They parked outside Dursley's building.
09:15 AM | Dursley's Apartment, South Metro
The hallway was the same mildew-scented tomb as before: peeling paint, buzzing fluorescent lights, the ghost of old smoke clinging to everything like a memory nobody wanted.
But something was different.
Too quiet.
No baby cries filtering through the walls. No rattling pipes warning of structural collapse. No sound of human life struggling to continue in a building that seemed designed to facilitate despair.
Just silence.
"Something's wrong," Adrian said, hand drifting toward his sidearm, his brown hair falling into his eyes as he tensed.
"Agreed. Probability of hostile presence: moderate," Aveline replied, pulling her weapon with the casual grace of someone reaching for a pen.
The door to 402 was unlocked.
It swung open.
Orren Dursley sat tied to a chair. Single gunshot wound to the back of the head, execution style, clinical, professional. Blood pooled beneath him, dried to dark brown crust that suggested hours had passed. Eyes open, staring at nothing because there was nothing left to see.
Adrian froze. The world tilted on its axis. Flashback slammed into him: Marcus. Same shot to the head. Same blood. Same helplessness.
My failure. Again.
Aveline stepped past him without hesitation, clinical and detached as a coroner arriving at a crime scene. Examining bindings, bullet trajectory, blood spatter, all just data points in a larger equation.
"Time of death: six to eight hours ago," she said, her voice carrying that warm, disarming tone even as she discussed a corpse. "Bindings: nylon cord, professional knot work. No struggle indicators prior, ambush likely. They knew he'd talk."
"I got him killed," Adrian whispered hollowly, sinking against the doorframe.
"You accelerated the timeline," she corrected, still smiling that perfect smile. "Statistically, he was already dead. Nexo doesn't leave loose ends. He became a loose end the moment he survived this long. You just brought the inevitable forward by hours. Weeks at most."
Her words cut clean, without malice because malice required emotion, and she had none to spare.
"No empathy. None."
Adrian moved deeper into the apartment, training taking over, the muscle memory of a body that knew what to do when the mind wanted to shut down.
"Who does this?" he asked.
"La Sangre Nera," she answered immediately, like she'd been waiting for the question. "Execution-style, bodies left on display. Psychological warfare. They're making a statement."
He narrowed his eyes. "You know them well."
"C.R.I.M.E requires proficiency in organized crime nomenclature. La Sangre Nera: public executions, fear through visibility. Varonola: clinical efficiency, targets disappear without trace. Fear through uncertainty. La Famiglia: distribution networks, supply chain dominance. Different methodologies, all terrifying in their own ways."
She dialed her phone with practiced efficiency, her voice changing to sound panicked, concerned, an emergency operator's nightmare. Anonymous tip. Dursley's body. Location. She hung up before they could trace the call.
"We leave now," she said, pulling him toward the hallway with surprising gentleness. "Metro PD will arrive in twelve minutes. Media shortly after. We don't want to be here when questions get asked."
Cold. Efficient. Detached.
09:35 AM | Hallway of Dursley's Building
Adrian's voice cracked in the hallway, the brown leather of his jacket creaking as he wrapped his arms around himself.
"Everyone I touch dies. Marcus. Dursley. Who's next? Yuki Tanaka? Elias?"
"Statistical inevitability," she replied, completely unmoved. "We require a new witness. Lower profile. Harder access. Repeat until evidence threshold is met or resources are exhausted. The logic is simple."
She spoke of people like chess pieces being moved across a board. Expendable. Interchangeable. Just variables in a complex equation.
Elias wasright. There's nothing human here.
09:50 AM | Driving Back | North Metro
Silence stretched like taffy being pulled, getting thinner and more fragile with each passing minute.
"Do you feel anything?" Adrian asked finally, unable to stop himself despite knowing the answer. "About Dursley? About any of this?"
"I feel frustration that the asset was neutralized before optimal utilization," she replied, that warm smile still perfectly in place. "Concern for accelerated response timeline. Strategic interest in La Sangre Nera's involvement. Grief?" She tilted her head slightly, genuinely curious. "That would be inefficient."
Adrian whispered, "Jesus."
Aveline frowned, head tilting like a confused machine encountering new code. "You keep invoking religious figures. Is that a cultural coping mechanism? Psychological transference to a higher power when confronted with mortality? Statistically, it's ineffective for stress management but it does provide short-term cortisol regulation."
He didn't answer. Just drove. His loose black jeans bunched at the ankles where they'd ridden up during the tense encounter. His black shirt clung to his ribs. The Hello Kitty bandage on his cheek seemed to mock him in the rearview mirror.
10:15 AM | N.P.U. Headquarters
Elias waited in the briefing room, arms crossed, his expression already grave before Adrian even spoke.
"Dursley's dead," Adrian said flatly. "La Sangre Nera. Execution style."
Elias exhaled sharply. "Shit. They're moving faster than we predicted."
Aveline stepped forward with clinical precision. "Alternative witness required. Cross-reference Marcus's journal for additional low-profile assets still employed."
She pulled up the files on the screen, three names, three folders, three possible futures.
"Analysis complete. Three candidates: Dr. Sarah Chen. Virologist. High-clearance access but constant surveillance, building security, personal detail, encrypted communications. Risk assessment: extreme. Miguel Santos. Maintenance supervisor. Access to every building on campus but undocumented worker, terrified of deportation, won't talk even under witness protection guarantees. Risk assessment: high. Yuki Tanaka. Data analyst. Marcus Varias's friend, mentioned repeatedly throughout journal entries. Still employed. Lives alone. No family, no security detail."
She paused, letting the implication settle.
"Risk assessment: moderate. Emotional leverage via Marcus connection creates motivation for cooperation."
Adrian's finger stopped on Yuki's file. "Tanaka. She knew Marcus. That matters."
"Agreed," Aveline said with that warm, disarming smile. "Emotional connection creates motivation. Chen's surveillance makes her suboptimal. Santos's immigration status creates compliance barriers."
Elias frowned. "She's still employed. If Nexo traces her connection"
"They will eventually," Aveline interrupted, and there was something almost sympathetic in her voice, learned, practiced, false. "Timeline favors immediate contact. Every hour we delay, probability of discovery increases exponentially."
Adrian looked at Elias. "We move now. Before they realize Marcus wrote her name down."
Elias hesitated. "Fine. But if this goes sideways"
"It won't," Aveline said with absolute certainty, the kind of certainty that only comes from someone who genuinely believed they were in control of everything, including other people's choices.