Page 106

He got what he wanted in the end.

She’s dead and he’ll get her job.

A few messages filter in from work colleagues, checking in or sharing gossip about Anders. I ignore them all. I can’t pretend to feel any sadness or remorse. A few articles report on her tragic death and alleged corruption, but it’s nothing new in the OCU. The story will lose steam in a few days when a more interesting scandal inevitably breaks out.

It all feels so insignificant.

Rowan texts me Daniel’s address, making sure to remind me to be careful. It’s a simple thing, but it sends a quiet warmth through me. I haven’t stopped thinking about last night and replaying those three words, leaving his lips over and over again.

I love you.

I fight the smile that forms on my lips but fail miserably. I feel ridiculous, like a teenager who just found out their crush likes them back, but I don’t care. I let myself believe it might just workout. We just need to end this and maybe then we’ll have a chance to learn each other again, slowly and properly. For the rest of our lives.

I drive through Senna, out of the colourful Flower District, busy with people despite the rain clouds that loom above. Its modernity fades into the densely packed neighbourhood of Harrow, with tall apartment buildings and neon-lit convenience stores at each corner.

I find Daniel’s apartment block easily. It’s a crumbling relic that has clearly seen better days. Peeling paint mars the façade, with thick swatches of graffiti screaming obscenities.

It’s a Friday afternoon, and the sun barely filters through the thick blanket of clouds, its weak light offering no warmth against the bite of winter in full swing. I bury my hands deeper into my coat pockets, bracing against the chill as I glance up at the building.

Somewhere nearby, kids are playing, their laughter faint and distant, drifting from a run-down park further up the street.

Daniel’s apartment is on the sixth floor and unsurprisingly, the elevator is out of order, so I take the stairs instead. There are random pieces of furniture along the staircase and overflowing bins cluttering the narrow hallways. It smells faintly of mildew, beer and stale smoke, the classic odour of Judiciary controlled estates.

When I reach the front door, I glance around, scanning for anyone who might be watching me, but it’s empty, just the muffled noises from other apartments filling the air. I raise my hand to knock, but the door creaks open as soon as my fist makes contact, the sound echoing down the empty hallway. I pause, my stomach twisting in a way I don’t like. Something is off, but I push forward, my heart pounding louder with every step.

“Hello?” I call, but there’s no answer.

The faint buzz of a dying lightbulb fills the silence, and the acrid stench of rot hits me like a wall. I know what I’m going to find before I see it.

Instinct kicks in. I draw my gun, holding it steady as I step into the outdated kitchen, each footfall careful. As I cross the small kitchen and reach the threshold of the dining room, I freeze.

Right there on the floor, Daniel Tang lies. His body is twisted unnaturally; crimson red pooled around him. A dark trail runs from his mouth and a fresh wave of nausea twists my stomach.

He’s dead.

I approach him slowly, kneeling beside him. I lean in, careful not to touch anything. His chest is still, his skin waxy—he’s been dead for hours, maybe more.

I search his body for signs of decomposition, but this isn’t Haze I quickly realise. There’s a close-range gunshot wound on the side of his head.

“Shit,” I mutter.

This wasn’t a suicide. Someone killed him.

My eyes search the open area of the apartment and just then, in the dark, they land on another still mass at the threshold that crosses into a hallway.

I gag, my stomach rolling again as I get on my feet to get to them. They are lying face down, arms sprawled outwards and longish black hair is saturated with thick coagulated blood that pools around them.

I want to see who he is, but I can’t touch him with my bare hands and risk DNA evidence. I quickly make my way back to the kitchen and reach for the nearest cloth I can find. Covering my hand with it, I push the man onto his back. Bile launches up my throat and I stumble, falling on my ass when I see with the side of the victim’s face.

Trist.

His eyes are still open; his lips parted like he was about to scream. Brown eyes stare back at me, his face bloated and waxy just like Daniel’s.

“No.” I push away from him, accidentally getting some of the thick blood onto my hands. It’s sticky and cold. I look down at it in horror.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Calm down, Alex,a voice warns.It doesn’t sound like my own. It sounds like Kane’s.