Eyes That Never Closed

The streets of Eastern Paris glided past the car windows like brushstrokes in a painting. Brendon leaned his forehead against the cool glass, his lupine ears twitching slightly every time the tires hummed over a speed bump. After a year locked inside concrete silence, the outside world was loud — alive — almost too real.

"So," the driver said with a slight grin, "what do you think of Paris so far? Not quite your homeland, huh?"

Brendon didn't smile, but he let out a soft snort. "Not quite."

Christopher Canessane, the crocodile anthro driving the car, gave a warm laugh. "You'll get used to it. Or might hate it. Depends on your threshold for baguettes and bureaucracy."

They pulled up in front of an aged but well-maintained building in the quieter part of the 11th arrondissement. Christopher killed the engine and turned in his seat.

"Welcome to my humble kingdom. Two rooms, a kitchen, a perpetually moody radiator, and the best ramen place just down the block. Until we catch this freak, you're staying here. Don't worry, I already warned the neighbors you snore."

Brendon arched an eyebrow. "I don't snore."

"You look like someone who does."

Inside, the apartment was surprisingly neat. Not sterile, just lived-in. A bookshelf leaned against the wall filled with detective novels some of detective Philip Marlowe, framed movie posters — mostly noir — and a coat rack overburdened with old jackets. The air smelled like incense and a hint of tobacco.

Brendon stepped inside silently, scanning his temporary sanctuary. The couch had a slight dip in the center, betraying its frequent use as a bed. On the counter, the coffee machine had a cracked base. A few unopened letters lay tucked under a bowl of half-eaten fruit.

"You're from the countryside," Brendon said bluntly, scanning the contents of the living room.

Christopher looked up from dropping his keys in a bowl. "Huh?"

"You fold your shirts like someone who learned from a mother, not a dorm roommate. That's not city-learned discipline. There's a medal on the wall — agricultural science competition — and that accent of yours slips when you're excited."

Christopher stared at him for a long second, then let out a whistle.

"Okay, Sherlock. But tell me my blood type while you're at it."

"Easy, B negative. Your hands have minor needle scars. You used to donate. Probably stopped when you moved to the city."

"…Damn," Christopher muttered, rubbing his arm. "Okay, you're freakishly good. Yeah, fine — I'm from a village near Cahors. Moved to Paris to be a detective."

"And the betting?"

Christopher froze.

Brendon gestured to a crumpled betting slip peeking from beneath the bookshelf. "You're losing money."

A sigh. "Yeah. It started small. Thought I could flip a few bills on horse races. But I guess dreams and debts go hand in hand in this town."

Brendon studied him quietly for a moment. "You're honest about it. That's rare."

"Well," Christopher chuckled, rubbing the back of his head with embarrassment, "you're living with me now. Might as well know who you're shackled to."

After lunch — microwaved pasta and an over-steeped cup of tea — Brendon slumped on the sofa and sank into a long, dreamless nap. The couch creaked under his weight, but he barely noticed. His muscles, used to confinement, were adjusting to the open space. His ears flicked occasionally, but his breathing remained steady.

Evening filtered through the curtains in a wash of gold. The distant noise of honking horns and lively voices painted the air with sound. Christopher returned to the living room with a box of files, a thick manila folder on top labeled:

CASE: BLEEDING EYE — UNRESOLVED.

"Rise and shine, big guy," Christopher said, thumping the file onto the coffee table.

Brendon stirred. His golden eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the dusk-dim room.

"What's this?"

"Your ticket to freedom." Christopher sat opposite him. "This is everything they have on the Bleeding Eye case. And believe me, it's not a lot. That's why they brought you in."

Brendon leaned forward, flipping through the folder. Dozens of black-and-white photographs stared back at him — faces caught in the final moment of terror. Each one, a human. Each one, lifeless with gaping sockets where eyes should have been. It's a real gutt wrenching sight.

"The media barely reported on it," Christopher said, voice low. "When it first started, it was written off as unrelated homicides. Then the patterns began to emerge."

Brendon paused on a photo of a middle-aged man, a police badge clipped to his ruined shirt. "Ten years?"

"Yep. Every three or four months, two victims. Always humans. Always strangled by ropes. Always left with their eyes removed."

"What was used?"

"Nylon wire or thin rope. Same material every time. But there's more." Christopher handed him a plastic evidence bag with a few printed phrases written in uneven lettering: High class, You starved us, Unwanted, You harmed us.

"Every scene had one," he continued. "Sometimes on a post-it. Sometimes on a napkin. Sometimes carved into wood. Always a message."

Brendon flipped through more photos. "Hair?"

Christopher nodded, handing over another evidence sheet. "They collected follicles from the wire. Not many, but enough for a partial DNA match. It's not fully human. Not fully anthro either."

Brendon raised an eyebrow.

"It's hybrid DNA," Christopher said. "Combination of Hyena and Rat. Which means we're dealing with a hybrid."

Brendon leaned back against the couch. The pieces scattered in his mind — clues, fragments, hints of motive. "Thirty-seven confirmed deaths. No suspects?"

Christopher shook his head. "Not a single one. No fingerprints. No surveillance. Killer's like a ghost. Even after we knew what to look for, they stayed one step ahead."

Brendon studied the words again: You harmed us. You starved us.

"This isn't just murder," he said. "It's sort of a statement."

"Exactly," Christopher said, almost relieved. "That's what we've been saying for years. The higher-ups think it's some psycho or a cult. I think it's someone trying to send a message to society."

"Any commonality among victims?"

"All human. Varied professions. A few were politicians, one ex-military, some teachers, some social workers. But mostly people in visible positions of authority or class. Not necessarily rich, but influential."

"Any hybrid victims? Any anthros?"

"None."

Brendon tapped the folder. "This killer isn't just deranged. They're angry. They're targeting humans for a reason. Maybe revenge. Maybe.... ideological. Not sure yet."

Christopher sat back and whistled. "It's good to have someone sharp on this again. Maybe now we'll make progress."

Brendon looked at him. "I'll need every information on the victims. Their history. Any public controversies. Legal documents. Everything."

"I'll get it. Might take a few days though. Bureaucracy's still allergic to anthros."

Brendon glanced back at the photos again. "They're escalating. If the pattern holds… we'll have more deaths soon."

A silence settled between them. One shaped not by comfort, but gravity.

Christopher stood. "I'll order some food. You want pizza or Chinese?"

"Chinese," Brendon replied absently, still staring at the haunting evidence.

That night, long after the city lights bled across the floor, Brendon sat by the window. The folder rested on his lap. His claws tapped against the cover rhythmically.

A hybrid killer, targeting humans with precise regularity. A message buried in violence. The ghosts of thirty-seven victims whispering through pages.

And somewhere in the city, the Bleeding Eye must be watching — planning it's next move.

Brendon has narrowed his eyes.

"Not for long." He thinks.