2. 𝔀𝓱𝓮𝓷 𝓱𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓻𝔂 𝔀𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭𝓷'𝓽 𝓭𝓲𝓮 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓵𝔂
"𝒮𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝓇𝓊𝓉𝒽 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝒶𝒹𝒾𝑜—𝒻𝓊𝓁𝓁 𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓉𝒾𝒸, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓀𝑒𝓅𝓉 𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝓊𝓃𝒸𝒽𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑒."
Sylvester sat there, surrounded by the stale scent of too many late nights and too few victories, sipping coffee that had long given up trying to be anything but cold. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed with all the enthusiasm of a funeral march, adding a droning soundtrack to the misery. The room stank of old paper—books left to rot in basements, the damp pages curling with neglect. The scent stuck to your clothes, clung to your skin, like something trying to crawl into your bones and make a home. The radio, of course, didn't help—a garbled mix of static and headlines that felt less like news and more like an apology for the world's slow collapse.
He was buried under files—stories of people who'd lived and died, often in that order, though not always. A collection of tragedies, each more pathetic than the last. And in every crime scene photo, like a bad habit nobody wanted to admit, there was that damn fingerprint. Just sitting there. Staring at him. The kind of detail everyone had chalked up to a fluke, because why deal with it if you didn't have to, right? Sure, heart attacks and strokes were natural causes. But when they all started lining up in neat little rows, you couldn't help but feel like the universe had a cruel sense of humor. His right pinky throbbed, reminding him of the burn scar he didn't like to talk about—especially because of how it reminded the fingerprint mark in the case.
That fingerprint had been there all along, right under their noses, in every photo.
Overlooked. Dismissed.
An innocent smudge, they'd said, not worth noting. And why would they have to deal with it when they didn't have to? After all, people dropped dead every day from heart attacks, strokes, and aneurysms. Nothing suspicious about it. Except, Sylvester couldn't shake the itch in his mind. Too many bodies. Too many "natural" causes. The deaths weren't random, not by a long shot. The images pinned on his glass wall were slowly turning into a grim mosaic of death.
"𝐼𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝒸𝒶𝓇𝒹𝒾𝒶𝒸 𝒶𝓇𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓉, 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝑜𝓀𝑒, 𝒶𝓃𝑒𝓊𝓇𝓎𝓈𝓂—𝓂𝒶𝒹𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝑜𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝒾𝒻 𝒟𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒽𝒶𝒹 𝑔𝑜𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓃 𝓁𝒶𝓏𝓎 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝓉𝒶𝒾𝓁𝓈."
He stood up, stretching the knots out of his back, and stared at the glass wall. Case files arranged neatly, forming a timeline that stretched over a decade. This wasn't a killer; this was an artist, painting in the medium of mortality. Each life snuffed out with the precision of someone who knew exactly how to hide in plain sight.
Just then, a knock rattled the door. Sylvester groaned – his rare moments of epiphany always seemed to get interrupted. Ramirez slunk in, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. His face was pinched with worry, his eyes darting around like a kid who'd broken something expensive and was about to come clean. He held a battered file in his trembling hands, the edges worn, the papers inside yellowed with time.
"The prints came back negative," Ramirez muttered, the words tumbling out in a rush. "No matches anywhere—not in the living, not in the deceased databases, not even in the archives from a century ago. But..." His voice trailed off as if he was waiting for Sylvester to pull the words out of him with pliers.
Sylvester eyed him, one eyebrow raised. He didn't speak, just extended his hand for the file. He took his time opening it, flipping through the brittle pages with the care one reserved for something seemed so cursed. The first thing that caught his eye was the name: Isadora Thorne, born in 1806. He nearly laughed at the absurdity. 1806? That had to be a typo. No one was born in 1806 and was still around to leave fingerprints on a fresh corpse in 2002.
Sylvester blinked, leaning closer to the faded portrait. Isadora's face was just clear enough to leave an impression, yet something about it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
"Hold on," he muttered, feeling the absurdity of the situation creeping in. He flipped through the file again, eyes narrowing at the conspicuous blank space where the date of death should be. He stared at it.
Nothing. How could there be no death date?
Ramirez hovered nearby, like he'd rather be anywhere else. Sylvester shot him a sharp glance. "Tell me, how often do people live two centuries these days?"
Ramirez stammered, shifting his weight awkwardly. "That's...uh...not a thing. Not yet, anyway. But the records—they're legit. I double-checked everything. No history, no descendants, no... anything." His voice trailed off as if the whole thing was slowly driving him mad.
Sylvester tossed the file onto his desk with a heavy thud. "So, what? We're supposed to believe some ghost from the 1800s is running around leaving fingerprints on corpses today? What's next, vampires?"
The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a dull butter knife. Sylvester finally sighed, rubbing his temples. "Keep this quiet. The last thing we need is some hack journalist turning this into a freak show. We've got enough problems without the press breathing down our necks."
The weight of the situation settled in, palpable in the air. If this got out, it wouldn't just ruin the investigation—it would ruin careers. His career. Ramirez understood that much at least. "I'll keep digging," the young man said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "I'll support you, Detective. Whatever you need."
Ramirez, looking about as panicked as a rabbit at a fox convention, nodded, clutching the file to his chest like it was going to grow fangs and bite him any second. Sylvester watched him, almost amused at how much the young man resembled a kid guarding his favorite toy from playground bullies.
"Good," Sylvester said, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. "Go do your job. I'll do mine."
When the door clicked shut, Sylvester slumped into his chair, eyes closing as he tried to piece the puzzle together. He thought back to his mother, a death he'd never quite reconciled.
Sudden, tragic, and inexplicable, much like these recent cases.
There was always that little gnawing doubt at the back of his mind, whispering that it wasn't just a stroke of bad luck. It was something else.
Something way worse.
The years had done little to soften that suspicion, and now, with this Isadora Thorne business, it felt like someone had ripped the scab off an old wound. They'd called it an accident, a random, cruel act of fate.
But now? Now Sylvester wasn't so sure.
He rubbed the scar on his pinky again, a nervous tic he couldn't shake. The room felt smaller somehow, more suffocating.
Had she been another victim of this ghost he was chasing?
Another piece in the killer's twisted game?
He stood abruptly and turned to face the glass wall, the photos and documents strewn about like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He picked up a marker and started sketching. In the center of the collage, a rose bloomed. Isadora Thorne. The name that connected everything. The heart of the puzzle. The thorn in his side.
He stood there for a long time, staring at the rose, his mind swimming with questions he wasn't sure he wanted answers to. The quiet ticking of the clock was the only sound in the room. His mind raced, but one thing was clear: this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
"𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓈𝒶𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝒹𝑒𝒶𝒹, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝐼𝓈𝒶𝒹𝑜𝓇𝒶 𝒯𝒽𝑜𝓇𝓃𝑒 𝓈𝑒𝑒𝓂𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓈𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝑒𝓂𝑜."
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