CHAPTER 1

It was a cold Tuesday morning, and it felt like rain was just around the corner. The marketplace was slowly coming to life as traders poured into their shops, ready to begin a brand new day. The sounds of chatter soon filled the air as the daily hustle and bustle commenced. It would have been hard to imagine how a day like this could go wrong. The traders had already displayed their goods outside, leaving about three feet of space between each stall to allow buyers to pass through. They sat under thatch roofs, while their stores—made of concrete—stood solidly behind them.

One trader, however, was unusually late. He was known for punctuality, always at the market by 7:00 a.m. sharp. But now, it was 8:30.

"Good morning," said a man walking in from the left entrance.

"Good morning, Mr. Ti... you're late today?" said a woman seated in her store, surrounded by peppers and tomatoes.

"Yes, I had a few things to handle," he replied, now standing in front of his own store. Unlike others, his was made of steel, more of a storage unit for vegetables than a shop.

He paused, noticing the lock was broken. His heart skipped a beat. Mustering some courage, he pulled the door open—and there, slumped against the wall, was a dead body, completely bled out.

Before he could utter a word, a scream rang out behind him. Traders and buyers rushed toward the scene in alarm.

Minutes later, the entire market was sealed off, and all traders were asked to go home.

---

"What's your name?" asked a woman, probably in her late twenties. She wore reading glasses and had the kind of face that belonged on a magazine cover—only she was slim and carried a moody air. Dressed in a black suit and matching shoes, she stood with two men in similar attire. One looked to be in his fifties with a large belly. The other was younger, bald, and had a permanently stern expression.

"Ti Austin," the man replied. He wore native attire that made him appear heavier than he was. A utility belt hung loosely around his waist, designed to hold tools—but it was empty.

"When did you arrive at the market?" she asked.

"Around 8:30, ma’am."

"And the body was found in your store?"

"Yes, ma."

"How did it get there?"

Ti hesitated, unsure how to respond, aware of the weight of a wrong answer.

"Ma... I... I don't know," he finally said.

"I have more questions for you, but I can’t remember them right now. Where do you live?"

"Baker’s Street, ma."

She jotted something down and then dismissed him. As Ti left, she surveyed the now-deserted market—only she, her two colleagues, and a few evidence techs remained.

"You think he knows something?" asked the older man.

"If he does, he’s keeping quiet about it. But I think he's suspicious of someone," she replied.

"Who?"

"We'll find out soon enough. Get Sarah to track his phone and—"

She stopped mid-sentence, noticing something unusual. She began walking toward the body.

"Hey! Who are you?!" she shouted at a man squatting beside the corpse, snapping photos.

He stood and turned. A scar ran from the back of his neck up into his hairline, barely hidden. He wore glasses—non-prescription, she guessed—and a brown suit. He glanced at her briefly before turning back to the body.

"Harry? Is that you?" said the older man.

The stranger looked up again. "Joshua. Long time," he replied.

"Sir, who is this?" she asked.

"This is Agent Harry Fisher, the one I told you about," Joshua answered.

"When did you get here?" she asked.

"A few minutes ago. Thought I’d check out the scene."

"That’s good. This is Lucy Kayo," Joshua said. "She’s in charge of the case. And that’s Eddy," he added, pointing to the bald man now approaching.

"I’ve heard about you—you’re the man who lived?" Eddy said, extending his hand.

Harry looked at the hand, then back at Eddy’s face. "Please don’t say that around me," he muttered, turning back to the corpse.

"Sir, I don’t understand what he’s doing here," Lucy whispered to Joshua.

"Relax, Lucy. Harry’s here to help... he once solved a case in under five minutes."

"Oh, really? Then I’m sure he’s already learned a lot from the body," she said sarcastically.

Harry stood, looking like he hadn’t fully woken from a nap.

"He was killed here. One stab. The weapon was small—and poisoned. He didn’t bleed to death."

"What makes you say that?" Lucy asked.

"There’s a hospital nearby. If he wasn’t held down, he would’ve tried to run there."

"What if he was restrained?" she challenged.

"If I were the killer, I wouldn’t take that risk—especially considering who he was."

"Who was he?" Joshua asked.

"Joseph Mai. An Executive from District 2."

The air turned cold. The name brought all activity to a halt.

"Are you sure?" Eddy asked.

"No, I’m just blurting random names for fun," Harry snapped, then walked off toward the other stores.

Everyone was still processing the shock: a government executive had been murdered in public.

"All right, pack everything up!" Lucy barked. She turned to look for Harry—but he was gone.

"Where’d he go?" she asked.

"Don’t worry. He works better alone," Joshua replied.

"Are we seriously taking his word for it?"

"If you knew who he was, you wouldn’t be asking that."

---

Later that day, back at headquarters, Joshua stood before a room of assembled agents.

"As you all know, a murder occurred this morning at the market. The victim has been confirmed as Joseph Mai."

The room erupted in murmurs—clearly, everyone knew who he was.

"We don’t need to stress how critical solving this case is—especially with an Organizer visiting our district in two weeks."

Just then, Harry quietly entered the room, trying not to draw attention.

"Ah, the man of the hour," Joshua said. "Everyone, this is Agent Harry Fisher from District 2."

Low murmurs of “Is that the Harry ‘Potter’ Fisher?” echoed around the room.

Harry leaned against the wall near the door and gave a half-hearted wave, his expression blank.

"I’d have you all introduce yourselves," Harry said flatly, "but that won’t be necessary."

Joshua chuckled.

"Please assist him in any way you can. He might repeat questions—he has amnesia."

The murmurs picked up again.

"Let’s get to work," Joshua concluded.

As the agents approached Harry, shaking his hand or introducing themselves, he barely responded—just nods and a blank stare.

"Amnesia?" Lucy whispered behind Joshua.

"Yes. A bad accident. He forgets everything each day after he sleeps."

"How’s that even possible?"

"How should I know? Am I a doctor?"

"Sir..." Eddy cut in. "Harry was right. The dagger was poisoned."

"Any leads?" Lucy asked.

"Just one—Curtis Shey. Pharmacist. No longer practicing."

"Why her?"

"She was arrested five years ago for killing her husband with the same compound. Case was dismissed for lack of evidence."

"Go check her out," Joshua said. "Take Harry with you."

"Also, keep an eye on him. He may have already solved this and is just waiting for us to catch up."

"No offense, sir, but I think you're giving him too much credit," Lucy replied and left.

---

“Alright, you’re coming with me,” she said when she reached Harry.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

“If we’re tracking someone, we shouldn’t take the car,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Criminals expect it. They’ll be watching for it.”

She stopped, realizing he had a point.

“So what do you suggest?”

“We take a cab. And ditch the coat—you stand out.”

---

Twenty minutes later, they stood in front of an old bungalow. Broken windows, no gate—clearly abandoned. Harry knocked.

“Who is it?” a voice asked from inside.

“Agents. Please open up,” Lucy replied.

Harry’s eyes widened. He turned and ran toward the back. An old woman was trying to flee.

“Stop right there, ma’am,” he said, hand hidden in his coat.

“They’re going to kill me! I didn’t know she was going to use it to kill someone!” she cried.

“Who?” he asked gently.

“She... my daughter... she met with...”

Just then, a projectile zipped past Harry—it was an arrow. It struck the woman in the chest. She collapsed instantly.

Lucy dove to the ground. Harry turned to spot the source—an abandoned two-story building in the distance.

He bolted toward it.

Arrows flew past as he neared the wall surrounding the building. One grazed his head. He removed his coat and tossed it into the air—another arrow pinned it to the ground.

He spotted a gate, ran for it, and slid underneath. Another arrow nearly hit him. He kept going.

More arrows. He dodged, eyes fixed on the window the shots were coming from. Just as he reached the building, he heard a motorbike behind him.

He had two options: turn and be exposed, or keep running and risk getting run down.

At the last second, he turned and swung his dagger—he missed. The biker swerved and fell.

Helmeted. Unidentifiable.

The biker drew a knife—but before he could strike, two arrows hit him in the chest. He fell.

Harry froze. “What the hell just happened?” he muttered, rushing inside.

Upstairs, he moved carefully. Then he saw another stairway.

Realization dawned.

But it was too late—the shooter was gone.

Outside, a bike engine roared to life.

By the time he reached the ground floor, all that remained was the sound of wind and a lifeless body.