Inak moved through the store… his cane tapping softly against the tiles. He filled his cart with cans, dried food, bottled water, instant coffee. Enough to last weeks. The fewer trips out, the better.
He looked calm. Focused. Maybe even a little... excited.
At the checkout, he began placing the items on the counter, one by one. The cashier gave a routine nod, but then Inak's attention drifted behind her… he noticed the small TV mounted on the wall. A breaking news report of a missing person flickered across the screen. A photo. A boy. Michael.
His stomach sank. But his face remained neutral.
"Cash or card, sir?" the cashier asked.
"C-cash…" Inak said, his eyes still glued to the screen.
"That'll be $91."
He fumbled slightly as he handed over the bills, then took the plastic bags, three in total. As he turned to leave, one of the workers noticed him struggling with the bags and the cane.
"Sir, would you like help to your car?"
"NO!" Inak snapped, then quickly added, "I apologize… but…no I'm good... Thank you."
The worker blinked, caught off guard. Inak gave a stiff smile and walked out, the bags swaying against his legs.
Once inside his car, he set the bags on the passenger seat.
He sat there. Breathing. Thinking.
His hands gripped his thighs, hard enough to slightly cut off circulation. The skin beneath his fingers turned pale. His jaw clenched.
"It's fine… it's fine… You knew this would happen. It's just a missing kid report… it will probably be reported as suicide later. He was last seen near the bridge, right?"
His voice trembled as he tried to convince himself…
"Depressed. Alone. It fits the pattern... and no one saw anything. No evidence. Why would anyone suspect me? I'm a doctor. And crippled at that. It wouldn't even make sense…"
He stared at the empty road ahead. The silence in the car felt louder by the second. His legs twitched. His breathing grew uneven.
Then, very quietly, he said to himself,
"This was expected..." eyes locked on the road, head slightly tilted down, gaze sharpened like a hunter watching its prey. "I just need to stay a few steps ahead… before they find a crack to slip through..."
---
Meanwhile.
Criminal Investigations Command– 8th Floor, Central Division.
The air smelled like old leather and burnt coffee. Papers were stacked high, phones rang quietly in the background, and the city's most elusive crimes lived on whiteboards in fading marker ink.
Behind a thick oak desk sat Chief Harrison Stone, His white hair slicked back, and his upper lip crowned by a large, bushy white mustache, arms crossed, glasses perched low on his nose. A man built like an old tree… firm and looked unimpressed all the time.
Across sat Detective Blugh Starfin, his black hair combed back neatly, not a strand out of place, and his jaw as sharp as a blade. With a faint smirk on his face, legs crossed, tie half-undone, wearing a plum-purple suit. He sipped black coffee from a mug that said, "I See Dead People… Professionally."
Stone narrowed his eyes. "So… how did you manage to pull that off?"
Blugh tilted his head. "It was quite simple, really."
He set the mug down, then leaned forward so casually... yet, so eerie... enough to make most suspects confess before the questions even started.
"A series of murder cases. Unconnected at first… different backgrounds, different cities. But the bodies… all missing organs. Clean cuts. No mess. Whoever was doing it knew their way around a scalpel. So, I traced demand instead of supply. Hospitals, black-markets..."
He smiled. "Had to get my hands dirty. Literally. Bought a few livers, sold a kidney or two on paper. Not real kidneys... relax."
Stone grunted.
"Eventually," Blugh continued, "I followed the seller chain up to the top. Met the source. Ryan Lee. Asian American, 48, ex-surgeon. Lost his daughter to kidney failure. The man went crazy. Harvested organs to give them away… for free, mind you… to the poor. Robin Hood with a scalpel."
He chuckled, drumming his fingers on the desk.
"Of course…that's just overly simplifying it… It was a hell of a lot messier than that…"
After a slight pause with a smile on his face he added.
"Well, case closed. Another golden badge on the wall. Got anything else cooking for me, Chief?"
Stone sighed heavily, rubbing his temples.
"You ever just… go outside? See a girl? Take a weekend?"
Blugh's tone suddenly changed, more serious now. "What would I even do on a vacation? Relax? ... I don't get peace unless I'm working."
Stone ignored him and pulled out a folder from his drawer. Light case. Thin file.
"Nothing urgent. No stabbings. No organs missing. But we do have a missing teen. Michael. Seventeen. Quiet kid. No previous incidents. Disappeared about two weeks ago. Last seen near the west-end bridge."
He slid the file across the desk.
"I'm not asking you to take it. Honestly, my guys can handle it. But I figured... if you're bored."
Blugh picked up the file with one hand, still sipping coffee with the other.
"Missing boy, huh?" he muttered.
Blugh flipped through the file, eyes skimming fast. For a moment, he said nothing.
Then:
"Why two weeks?"
Stone looked up.
"Hm?"
"It took you two weeks to realize the kid was missing. Why is that?"
Stone sighed, rubbing his hand on his forehead.
"His aunt showed up two days ago. Walked in with a cigarette hanging from her mouth… almost kicked her out on sight. Then she asked to file a report."
Blugh didn't respond, just kept looking at the file.
Stone continued,
"We asked why she waited so long. She said he always disappeared for days. Thought he was just staying with a friend or wandering. Said he's the type to vanish without notice... but this time, he didn't come back."
Blugh finally looked up.
"And you believed her?"
"Didn't say that. But it's what we got." Said Stone, as he leaned back in his chair.
"Look, like I said… this doesn't have your name on it. My guys can handle it. But if something feels off..."
Blugh closed the file slowly.
"Something is off…" he said, almost to himself. Then he stood, straightened his tie… "though not much…" and gave Stone a half-smile.
"I'll take the file. I'll see if this interests me… in the morning."
Stone nodded and watched him leave.
---
Blugh's reached his house, stepped in, tossed his keys onto a counter, dropped the file beside them, pulled off his clothes.
His house was silent. Not quiet… silent.
No furniture. No décor. Books stacked everywhere… on the floor, on shelves, under windows. Hundreds of them. Religious texts. Novels. Psychology. Physics. Biology. Art theory…
He didn't read for joy. He believed a good detective had to be a master of all disciplines—to see from every angle, to think like anyone. Blugh wasn't a man. He was a walking database.
He had no bed, just a mattress on the floor. He sat on the edge of it, and grabbed his phone, set an alarm for 8 hours, 27 minutes, 30 seconds.
Eight hours and twenty-three minutes... that was his ideal sleep duration, through years of trial, error, and obsessive documentation. He'd recorded everything. Tracked alertness, memory recall, even dreams. The extra four minutes and thirty seconds was his average time to fall asleep once his eyes closed.
He laid down with his arm resting on his forehead, stared up at the ceiling for a beat. Blinked once. Then his eyes shut.
---
As soon as the alarm hit, Blugh's eyes opened wide. He got out of bed and headed to the shower
The shower water hit precisely 41°C.
Any higher, and his skin flushed. Any lower, and his circulation dragged.
Two pumps of shampoo. One pump of body wash.
Towel draped once around the waist, he stepped over to the mirror. Brushed his teeth with 43 strokes per quadrant. No more. No less.
He stood before his closet, and picked a gray shirt. Blue overcoat. Muted tones for mental clarity.
Clashing colors distracted the brain.
Today needed focus.
In the kitchen, he cracked three eggs into a bowl — 18 grams of protein.
One slice of wheat toast — 100 calories.
He chewed at a measured pace, avoiding the spikes in cortisol that came from rushing breakfast.
Even his caffeine dosage was calculated: 40ml espresso, diluted to 120ml total with warm water.
He sat. Plate to his left. File to his right. And the coffee right in between.
He opened the folder.
He brought the coffee to his lips. Let it sit on his tongue five seconds before swallowing.
He began reading.
Name: Michael Elren
Age: 17
Background:
Mother: Deceased (cause of death: overdose)
Father: Incarcerated (possession of narcotics)
Current Guardian: Eliza Karron - Maternal aunt (unmarried, unemployed)
Known Associates: None listed. No siblings or extended family involvement noted.
Case Status: Missing Person
Details:
No body, belongings, or cellphone found.
Last confirmed sighting: 11:07 PM via CCTV footage at the entrance of West End Bridge.
GPS signal from mobile device last recorded at the bridge at 11:24 PM.
Blugh squinted at the note 'No cellphone'... he stared at it for quite a while. Then repeated in his mind:
No body. No items. No cellphone. No trace.
He stared down at the report again. He'd read it four times already. Every line. Every timestamp. Every dead-end lead. The plate was still on the table, the half a slice of wheat toast, cold eggs, steam less coffee. His leg constantly bounced under the table.
No body... No items... No cellphone... No trace...
Nothing.
Not a single thing.
He leaned back and stared at the ceiling.
Maybe he jumped... people jump all the time. Especially ones with a record like this: no parents, lost mother to overdose, father locked up, lives with a burned-out aunt in a broken house...
Could the aunt have done something?
Maybe the kid got out of line. Maybe she snapped. Maybe she staged it. Dumped the phone. Reported him missing the next day to look clean.
He leaned back.
He exhaled, weighing the possibilities.
But the timing. The bridge. The seventeen-minute gap.
And she was seen at a store at 10:42 PM, four miles away... receipt confirmed, location pinged. No way she could have made it to the bridge and back in time. Plus, there is no vehicle registered to her name.
Not her, he thought, shaking his head. She's a mess... but not smart enough for this.
This wasn't sloppy. If this isn't suicide, it's too clean... too calculated.
Then he looked at the file again... Michael's last pinged GPS location, 34 meters into the bridge's entrance.
Something about that detail felt incomplete...
He kept reading it, as he continued to chew on the eggs.
Then, He grabbed his phone and dialed.
'Telecom Log Center.'
"Blugh Starfin. Clearance 9A, I need full GPS log data for a missing person's phone. Michael Elren… I want the raw coordinates."
"Please hold…"
The silence dragged.
He tapped the pen against the table once. Twice. Then:
"Yes sir, last ping was received on the west end bridge"
"When?"
"11:24 PM."
"Precise coordination?"
"Sending now…"
His phone buzzed near his ear.
He opened the coordinates on the map.
The pin dropped on the right side of the bridge.
He didn't react at first. Just stared.
Then he slowly flipped back through the file.
Michael's fingerprints — left side of the bridge, on the railing.
CCTV Picture attached to the file — entered from the left.
No evidence of him crossing to the right.
Why would he even cross… Blugh though with a slight confusion.
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
It was unlikely he'd bother crossing that bridge… with cars moving too fast. And if he was planning to jump, there'd be no real reason for him to be there at all... and if he jumped from the left…
He turned the page to the bridge diagram.
Current direction: left to right.
If he fell in on the left, the river would've pushed him further from the ping location… downstream… phone pinged on the opposite side… seventeen minutes later.
He put the phone back to his ear.
"Hello… yes, I need confirmation. That ping… how accurate is it?"
"Location accuracy? Down to half a meter. Within 50 centimeters, give or take." said the support.
"And the timestamp? Exact?"
"Exact to the second."
Blugh exhaled slowly.
"Thank you."
He hung up.
Then, carefully flipped the file over and wrote:
'Michael's prints — railing – left side of bridge.
CCTV — entered from left side. No crossing recorded.
Phone ping — right side at 11:24 PM.
River current flows right to left. Seventeen minute gap. No phone recovered.'
Beneath it, he wrote:
'Possibility of someone taking the phone…'
Kidnapping a suicide victim to avoid suspicion... no fingerprints, no belongings, not a single trace left behind. If this was orchestrated... if this was deliberate... then whoever you are… you've got my full attention.
Blugh grabbed his keys and left without hesitation. He needed to see the CCTV footage. Now.
---
The drive to station was quiet. No music. Just his mind recapping all the details of the incident over and over again.
By the time he pulled into the lot, the sun was climbing. Almost noon. He stepped out, file in hand, and headed straight for the building… focused, fast, no wasted movement.
The front desk barely glanced at him. Everyone knew the coat. The walk. The look.
8th floor, down the corridor. Right turn. Chief Stone's office.
He didn't knock. Just pushed the door open and dropped the folder on the desk.
Stone was mid-call. He held up a finger, wrapping up quickly.
"I'll get back to you in a moment." Click. Hung up.
Stone glanced down at the file, then up at Blugh. "What's the meaning of this?"
Blugh sat across from him, calm. "Most likely not suicide," he said flatly. "Kid may have planned to jump, but someone took advantage of that. Figured a suicide case meant no one would look too closely."
Stone narrowed his eyes. "Elaborate."
"It's all in there," Blugh replied, nodding at the file. "I need access to the full CCTV feed. Every angle. Every timestamp. I think we're dealing with someone who knows how to think."
A faint smirk curled the edge of his mouth. "If you'll excuse me—I'll be checking the footage now."
Stone opened the folder as Blugh left the office.
The surveillance archive room was colder than the rest of the building. Rows of servers buzzed softly behind mesh panels. A desk sat at the far end, manned by a tech whose shirt said he hadn't slept in two days.
Blugh held up his ID. "Blugh Starfin. Clearance 9A. I need the full bridge footage related to Michael Elren. Everything from 10:00 PM to 1:00 AM. I need every single footage you have, every single camera functioning in the entire route Michael took"
The tech blinked, yawned, nodded. "Copying to your drive now."
Blugh gave a curt nod and turned back, heading to his office. His office was different than his house... it was much more structured. Behind a large wooden desk stood a tall bookshelf, stacked tight. Two monitors sat on the desk. In front of all of it, were two sofas, facing each other, with a coffee table in the middle. And beside all of it, was a full windowed wall, giving him a clear view of the entire station entrance.
He sat down, and booted the computer. The hum of the machine filled the room... as it was booting he opened the top drawer of his desk, and pulled out a half-used pack of nicotine gum. Strawberry flavor. He unwrapped two and popped them in.
He leaned back in the chair.
And waited.
Then a notification popped up on the screen. The footage had arrived.
---
Fifty-two clips. Different angles. Different locations. All showing Michael walking—toward the bridge. Alone. No one tailed him. No one walked beside him. It was late, quiet. Even cars were scarce.
Blugh chewed his gum slowly, eyes locked on the screen. He went through each video one by one. Adjusting brightness. Zooming in. Rewinding. Pausing. Watching again. It took time—over an hour—and by that time the gum had lost all its flavor.
The bridge wasn't exactly a popular route at those hours. From 10 PM to 1 AM, only 32 cars had crossed. Most drivers preferred the main road—it was faster, better lit. You only took the bridge if you had a reason to.
Blugh scrubbed back to the entrance cam. The final camera before the railing.
11:35 PM.
A car. Exiting the bridge.
He paused. Zoomed in on the driver.
His eyes narrowed.
It was Inak.
Blugh stared for a moment, then leaned back in his chair, a dry smirk forming on his face.
"Oh… you slipped, buddy."
He reached for a sticky note, and jotted the license plate number.
Then tore the sticky note off and stood up, gum still chewing. Walked over to his desk phone.
Dialed.
'Traffic Records Division, Vehicle Registry.'
"This is Detective Blugh Starfin. Clearance 9A. I need a full ownership profile on a plate... sending it now."
He snapped a photo of the note, sent it through the secure line.
"Received… plate number registered to a doctor named Frederick Inak. Want the full DMV package?"
"Yeah—and forward it to Civil Records Unit. I want a full profile on the individual."
"Copy that. Sending it through the pipeline now."
Blugh hung up and sat down again. Didn't say anything. Just waited.
---
Then after almost half an hour... another notification popped up.
Click… the full profile loaded.
Name: Frederick Haswelwalt Inak
Date of Birth: October 24, 1995
Current Occupation: Researcher & Lecturer
Fields: Oncology, Neurology
Degrees:
– Ph.D. in Oncology
– Ph.D. in Neurology
– Bachelor of Science in Chemistry
Academic Achievements:
– Published over 37 peer-reviewed papers in medical journals
– Guest lecturer at 9 international symposiums
– Youngest recipient of the Yamada Foundation Award for Neurodegenerative Research
– Developed early-stage model for synthetic neuron interfacing
– Advisory board member, National Institute of Biomedical Ethics
– Holder of three registered patents in neurochemical mapping
– Lead researcher in the 2022 "ReCell" regeneration trials
– Former Rhodes Scholar
…
And it kept going…
Blugh kept scrolling.
Degrees, papers, awards, lectures. Every time he thought the file would taper off, it kept going.
He leaned forward, muttering,
"I wanna see this guy's wall…"
"...If this guy did kidnap the kid…" a dry smirk crept in,
"…then that kid's probably wishing he had jumped..."
He leaned back in his chair, chewing the inside of his cheek.
History of mental health:
'No history of any recorded mental health problems.'
…
Medical health records (Confirmed through multiple medical entries):
'Paralysis. Left leg...
...Mild orthostatic hypotension.'
It was a common condition, especially in people with low BMI. When someone stood up too fast, their blood pressure could drop, making them dizzy or even faint. According to the file, Inak had a history of it. Episodes of lightheadedness, unstable vitals… all tied to his unusually low weight and erratic diet.
Blugh leaned back in his chair.
...Paralyzed...
He rubbed his chin, exhaled through his nose.
Is he even capable of kidnaping someone…?
He stared at the screen.
Why the hell would he even do it…?
The facts weren't lining up. No motive. No history. No pattern.
Am I just stretching here…?
Maybe the kid just jumped…
He said while putting down his pen.