Perspective: Detective Jiwon An
The smell hits me before the sight does—iron, rot, and something unnervingly organic.
My pulse spikes. My hands tremble for half a second before stabilizing. Years of training force my breathing into rhythm, but my stomach stays locked in revolt.
I step into the abandoned textile warehouse. Lights flicker. The concrete floor retains chilled moisture. The crime scene technicians are silent. Too silent.
A body sits against the far wall, spine bent, throat torn open with surgical precision. No hesitation marks. No struggle wounds. The victim looks like they were studied before they were killed.
I crouch. My gloves brush against dried blood.
Deep lacerations. Parallel.
Not knife cuts.
Not animal bites.
Something else.
My mind runs through every taxonomy I know. None match.
A technician speaks softly behind me.
"Detective… the eyes."
I lift the victim's eyelids.
The sclera are black. Saturated.
Not contact lenses.
Not disease.
Not human.
Cold pressure clamps around my chest.
I swallow.
Another Type-G case.
My throat tightens. My last memory of Type-G violence flashes—my partner lying on the asphalt, blood pooling under his neck. His last words. The promise I made.
I stand.
"This one wasn't killed by a Type-G," I say sharply.
The technicians freeze.
"How do you know?"
"Because these wounds are too controlled. A starving aberrant loses control and shreds everything in range. This killer… held back. Calculated."
I scan the room.
Footprints.
Blood smears.
A faint smell of antiseptic.
Someone cleaned themselves before leaving.
Then I notice something else.
A small metallic shard near the victim's palm.
I pick it up. It's a piece of a restraint collar used only in early government experiments—long before the public even knew Type-G existed.
My pulse accelerates.
Why is this old tech here?
Who still has access to it?
I hear heavy breathing behind me. The youngest technician looks pale.
"Detective… there's a second trail."
I follow the technician's flashlight beam to the back door. There are thin streaks of blood—not dragged. Voluntary. Whoever left was injured but stable.
My mind accelerates through probabilities.
The pattern resembles suppressants wearing off.
Meaning: the perpetrator forced themselves to stay calm while killing.
A regulated killer.
Not a feral one.
I exhale slowly.
This is worse than a typical aberrant case.
This is someone trained.
Someone who understands their biology.
Someone who knows how to hide.
Someone who has lived among humans for a long time.
The technician whispers, "Do you think he'll strike again?"
I look at the victim.
At the wound.
At the precision.
At the cleaned blood.
"He never stopped."
A sudden unease crawls beneath my skin—an instinct, a warning.
My gut tells me this case is personal.
Close.
Too close.
I glance at my watch.
My shift should have ended an hour ago.
My husband will be waiting.
He always waits.
I silence the thought and refocus.
No distractions.
Not tonight.
Perspective Shift: Unknown Male (Main Character)
I wash my hands for the fifth time.
The water runs red, then pink, then clear.
My breathing is even. Controlled.
The mirror in front of me shows a calm expression. Neutral eyes. Normal complexion.
But the tremor in my right hand betrays me.
I tighten my fist until the tremor stops.
No fractures.
No visible blood under the nails.
No residue on the skin.
I reach for the disinfectant and scrub again.
Precision keeps me alive.
Precision keeps her safe.
My wife sent me a text thirty minutes ago:
"Are you eating dinner without me again? 😄"
I read it twice.
I feel something warm in my chest—an unfamiliar pull.
A sensation I never learned how to describe.
Something that tells me I don't want her anywhere near tonight's crime scene.
I dry my hands and look at the faint cut on my palm—shallow, already sealed.
I press the edge.
No pain.
No bleeding.
The suppressant pills are still working.
Barely.
A drop of black appears in my sclera before fading.
I blink until it disappears.
I put on a clean shirt.
I practice the neutral smile she likes.
Not too warm.
Not too flat.
A balance she never questions.
My phone vibrates again.
"Coming home late. New case. Very bad one."
My pulse spikes, but my face stays calm.
She is standing where the body was.
Breathing the same air.
Examining the same wounds.
She cannot get too close.
She cannot connect the patterns.
She cannot see the link.
I take a slow breath.
I rehearse my alibi again.
Every detail.
Every timestamp.
Every behavior.
"I just need to stay normal," I whisper to myself.
Then I hear footsteps outside the restroom.
I step back into the shadows.
My posture straightens.
My expression resets.
The door opens.
A figure steps inside.
A man with gray hair.
Aḷden Veras.
He watches me for a long second.
His eyes dissect me like data.
"You cleaned well," he says quietly.
"Too well. She'll sense it."
My jaw tightens.
"Then I'll correct my behavior."
His voice remains calm.
Emotionless.
"Your wife is approaching the truth. Sooner than expected."
I feel something cold expand in my chest.
"What should I do?"
Aḷden steps close, lowers his voice.
"Prepare for the moment she asks the right question."
He pauses.
"And decide whether you want to protect her… or protect yourself."
The sink drips.
My pulse accelerates.
My stomach twists.
Aḷden's face remains expressionless.
"Your life is built on controlled violence.
Her life is built on truth."
He steps aside.
"Both cannot survive the same room forever."