CHAPTER 1:
A cacophony of sirens began to crescendo as police vehicles converged on the crime scene.
It was 9:59 p.m.
Yellow caution tape was stretched across the alley's perimeter as officers secured the area. Floodlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the lifeless body sprawled against the damp concrete. The investigation had begun.
Detective Silvers arrived shortly after.
Still at the scene, he crouched beside the body, his expression tightening as he flipped through the deceased man's wallet and credentials.
"Dr. Richard Hemsworth," Silvers muttered with disgust. "A renowned archaeologist and scholar. Known worldwide for his work on ancient manuscripts and lost civilizations."
He exhaled sharply.
"But that begs the question—who would do something like this?"
A member of the forensic team glanced around the alley, visibly unsettled.
"And why would a man like him wander into a place like this?" the forensic officer added.
"This alley is notorious for criminal activity—gangs, illegal trades, the worst kinds of people."
An officer stepped forward.
"We received an anonymous call," he reported. "The caller claimed a robbery had taken place in an abandoned alley. No confirmed witnesses so far."
"What about suspects?" Detective Silvers asked. "Any leads?"
"No, sir. Nothing concrete yet. We're preparing for a full autopsy—detailed analysis will follow."
Silvers nodded.
"Good. Clear the scene once you're done." He sighed. "And brace yourselves. The media will be all over this by morning."
The body of Dr. Hemsworth was lifted carefully, officers preparing to transport it when something caught Silvers' eye.
"Hold on," he said sharply.
The detective knelt closer, his gaze fixed on the deceased man's left wrist.
There, etched faintly into aged skin, was a tattoo—foreign words, not English.
CAPUT PRIMUM
Silvers frowned. Latin.
The First Chapter.
His eyes traveled further down the arm, stopping at another marking just above the wrist—a Roman numeral.
DCCCXIX
He straightened slowly. The tattoo looked old, weathered by time. After a moment's hesitation, he waved the officers on.
"Proceed."
1:00 a.m.
Detective Silvers drove home along a nearly empty road, the city quiet in the aftermath of the night. He turned on the radio, letting the low hum fill the silence.
Yet his thoughts refused to settle.
The tattoo.
CAPUT PRIMUM.
819.
A strange coincidence, he thought. Roman numerals translating to 819—the exact date of the murder. August 19th.
Official speculation pointed toward robbery. But Silvers knew better.
The wallet had been untouched. Cash still inside.
Dr. Richard Hemsworth hadn't been robbed.
Which meant the obvious question lingered.
Why was he killed?
Who were the people involved?
And was Dr. Hemsworth connected to something—or someone—dangerous enough to want him dead?
The questions swirled relentlessly as Detective Silvers drove on, unaware that this case was only the beginning.
[Two Days Later…]
Detective Silvers poured himself a cup of coffee—black, no sugar. A ritual as sacred as breathing. He flipped on the television and let the Daily News Channel fill the room with background noise as steam curled lazily from the mug in his hand.
ON THE DAILY NEWS CHANNEL:
The death of Dr. Richard Hemsworth had made headlines almost immediately. The story spread like wildfire.
Standing before a swarm of reporters, the Chief of Police addressed the press, describing the late Dr. Hemsworth's passing as a tremendous loss to society. He went on to reveal that Dr. Hemsworth had been scheduled to deliver a parcel containing an ancient papyrus and manuscript, recently uncovered at an undisclosed archaeological site during an expedition months earlier.
According to the chief, Dr. Hemsworth had spent several months deciphering the manuscript and was preparing to submit his findings to the National Museum—only to be found dead in an abandoned alleyway. The manuscript, however, was missing.
The chief assured the public that a thorough investigation was underway and that justice would be served.
Silvers scoffed softly, lifting his mug.
"So… something was stolen after all," he muttered. "That explains why his wallet and valuables were untouched."
He took a slow sip.
"An ancient manuscript?" he continued.
"Why go through all that trouble for old paper? Unless…" He paused. "Black market auction."
The thought didn't sit well.
He turned off the television and sank into his sofa, eyes narrowing as his mind went to work.
"I've researched Dr. Richard Hemsworth extensively," he said to himself. "His life, his work, his movements. And yet—there isn't a single published article mentioning a manuscript delivery to the National Museum."
Silvers frowned.
"So where did the Chief get that information?" he asked rhetorically. "And from whom?"
He leaned forward.
"Making a statement like that means someone already knew about the parcel. But there's been no public record of it. None."
His thoughts raced.
"Unless…" He exhaled sharply. "Unless this was a covert operation. Someone tried to keep the manuscript's existence hidden. But once it was stolen, they had no choice but to acknowledge it publicly."
The pieces began to align—uncomfortably well.
"Dr. Hemsworth found dead in a dangerous alley. No personal items taken. Only a specific parcel missing." He shook his head. "Someone intercepted him. Which means someone knew exactly where he'd be."
And then there was the anonymous caller.
Silvers sighed deeply.
"Get it together," he told himself. "You've handled worse cases than this. This one won't break you."
He glanced toward the bathroom.
"Guess it's time to get ready for work."
Just as he shifted in his chair—
RING.
A phone call.
He groaned.
"What now?" he snapped. "It's only been two days! At this rate, I'll be dead before I get a single lead."
He slumped back into his seat, frustration washing over him.
Being a top detective came with expectations. Silvers was known for meticulous planning and sharp instincts—but also for his legendary procrastination. So legendary, in fact, that certain "motivational parameters" had been put in place to keep him productive.
After a moment of inner conflict and silent regret over every life decision he'd ever made, he stared at the ringing phone with pure disdain.
He let it ring.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
He whispered a prayer to the god of procrastination, begging for divine intervention.
The phone rang again.
And again.
By the fifteenth missed call, both Silvers and the god of procrastination were exhausted.
He answered.
"It's a beautiful morning, Detective Silvers," came a cheerful voice. "It's Reagan—Reagan from the Investigations Department."
Silvers sighed. "Hey, Reags. Yeah… beautiful morning indeed."
"So why the call?" he asked flatly.
"Well," Reagan replied, "the leader of the Foundation Alliance wants to speak with you. It's related to the case you're currently working on."
Silvers straightened.
"The Foundation Alliance?" he repeated.
"Did he say why me specifically?"
"No," Reagan said. "He says it's classified."
Silvers' expression hardened.
Classified…
That means State Intelligence is involved.
"Alright," Silvers said. "When and where?"
"You'll be scheduled for a meeting in two weeks. Details will be sent to your email."
"Perfect," Silvers replied quickly. "Gives me time to clear my schedule."
He moved his finger toward the end-call button.
"Oh—by the way," Reagan added casually, "how's your family?"
Silvers forced a laugh. "Oh, they're fine. Barely see them, but hey—nothing like slaving away to keep the career going, right? Ha. Ha."
"Right…" Reagan said. "Speaking of slaving away, I actually have some extra work for you if you're intere—"
CALL ENDED.
Silvers lowered the phone.
"Sorry, Reags. Must be network issues," he said unapologetically. "Looks like the god of procrastination still has my back."
He stood up, stretching.
"Well… I guess I really should get to work."
This time, there was a spark of determination in his eyes.