Morning Jog

Morning sun crawled lazily across the dusty windowpanes of Christopher Canessane's apartment. The kettle whistled softly, a steady stream of steam spiraling upward as Christopher buttered a slice of bread. A yawn broke across his face as he stood in his boxers and a faded undershirt, hair tousled, eyes still half-lidded.

He moved to the fridge, took out lettuce, some slices of ham, and a tomato. The sandwich was a morning ritual he performed with the solemnity of a priest. Slap the ham. Cut the tomato. Fold the lettuce. Done.

"Could use some mustard," he murmured to himself.

As he reached for the cupboard above the sink, his gaze swept the living room out of habit — only to pause.

The couch was empty.

His hand stopped mid-air.

"…Wait a minute."

He walked over to the sofa, eyes narrowing, then glanced toward the bathroom — door open. No sign of Brendon.

"Okay," he said aloud to no one, voice rising with creeping urgency. "Alright. Calm down. Calm down. No need to panic. Maybe he's just… in the building? On the roof? Getting some milk?"

But Brendon didn't drink milk.

And Christopher hadn't heard the door.

"Shit," he muttered, tossing the sandwich on the counter.

He pulled his phone from the charger and stared at it like it would explain itself. "He left. He left! And I was supposed to — I was told — ughhh!"

Pacing now.

"If he gets caught outside — unsupervised — I am toast now. I'll be back in my village growing zucchinis next week!"

Just as he opened the door to run down the hall in a panic, the front lock clicked.

Brendon stepped inside, dressed in a black tank top, jogging pants, and running shoes that looked like they'd been through a war. His breath was steady, posture relaxed.

Christopher froze, his arms raised like he was about to tackle a ghost.

"You—! You—! Do you have any idea how much of a heart failure I just went through?!" he yelped.

Brendon blinked. "You look fine."

"I'm not fine! You can't just vanish like that, man! You're under government observation! I am your.... sort of babysitter! You sneak out, and guess who gets roasted over hot coals by the French police?"

Brendon set his towel on the back of the chair calmly. "You won't lose your job."

"That's exactly what people say right before someone loses their job! 'Oh, trust me, nothing will happen' — And BAM! Fired. Reassigned. Sent to janitor duty in Lyon!"

Brendon sat on the edge of the sofa, calm as morning fog. "Just believe me. I wasn't doing anything reckless. And I mean not reckless enough to get you in trouble."

"You are unbelievable." Christopher narrowed his eyes, hands on his hips. "Where were you, then?"

Brendon took a deep breath. "I went for a jog."

"A jog?"

Brendon nodded. "It's been a while. My legs are out of shape from… the cell."

Christopher opened his mouth to argue but shut it with a sigh, arms falling to his sides.

Brendon continued, "I ran through the side streets — eastward, mostly. Down Rue Saint-Maur, then toward the Marché Popincourt. I observed the people around here. The living rhythm of this district."

Christopher raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"I've seen similar patterns before," Brendon said, reaching for the glass of water Christopher had left on the table. "Most of the government positions here are held by humans. The ones working in civil offices, schools, courts. A fair number of anthros are in positions of comfort too. Middle-class, some in upper. But hybrids…"

He took a sip, then placed the glass down.

"…They live like shadows. I saw them gathered near a housing block on Rue Bisson. In a very cramped conditions. Thin clothing. Most of them are working as garbage collectors or doing street maintenance. They doesn't get the recognition. But still they do the work."

Christopher leaned against the wall, arms folded.

Brendon stared ahead. "It's clear now. The killer isn't just angry. He or she is speaking — not with words, but through the corpses. Through who he or she target. They're cutting the eyes out of those they believe turned a blind eye."

Christopher whistled low. "That's… poetic. Creepy, but pretty poetic."

"It's a message to the powerful," Brendon said. "A scream carved into flesh. A warning from a cornered creature."

"Already on the job, huh?" Christopher said, cracking a grin. "It really seems like you're gunning hard for that deal to get your freedom."

Brendon didn't smile, but something flickered in his eyes. Determination. Drive.

Christopher turned back to the counter, grabbing the sandwich and finally taking a bite. "You could've just jogged around the block, you know. Or told me."

"I did leave a note."

Christopher paused, then checked the fridge.

Indeed, there it was: a post-it note.

"Went for a jog. Be back before breakfast. — Brendon."

"…How very considerate."

Just then, his phone buzzed.

Christopher put down the sandwich and picked it up, his expression quickly shifting. "Yeah? Yes, sir. Mm-hmm. Got it. Yeah, he's here. No, he's behaving. Of course. I'll update you as soon as we have something. Understood."

He hung up and turned to Brendon with a grim look.

"There's been another one."

Brendon straightened.

"Southeast Paris," Christopher said. "A few hours ago. A male, in his early forties. And more importantly the pattern of the killing is same. It seems it started again."

The apartment went quiet, heavy with realization.

Brendon stood, his tall frame casting a long shadow against the morning light.

"Then let's not waste time."