The Dart

Under a twenty-minute drive later, Christopher's old sedan rolled up to a small gated property tucked between apartment blocks on Rue Lenoir, Southeast Paris. The early morning chill lingered in the air, but the street was anything but quiet. People had already gathered behind police barricades, whispering, murmuring, buzzing like a hive poked one too many times.

Blue and white tape cordoned off the scene, fluttering lightly in the breeze. Uniformed officers stood firm, holding back the crowd. The house was modest — two stories, faded beige paint, wooden window frames, and a narrow path that led to the porch where the murder occurred.

The second Christopher parked, the moment the doors unlocked, heads turned.

As Brendon stepped out — towering, sleek-furred, his imposing wolf anthro figure dressed in a blue jeans and a collared black shirt — the crowd parted almost instinctively. Curious gazes turned anxious. Some whispered. Some stared openly.

A man in a brown trench coat holding a mic broke through the barricade, followed by a cameraperson.

"Excuse me! Sir! Just a moment!" the reporter called, shoving the mic toward Brendon's face.

Brendon squinted against the sunlight, not stopping.

"We haven't seen much anthros in the Paris PD before — especially not a wolf. In fact," the reporter leaned closer, voice lowering, "rumors says that a wolf anthro was captured last year during the Lagooncrest operation, in charge of being a part of a drug cartel. But disappeared afterward. Never found. No trial has been conducted, no sentencing. Could you be that individual?"

Brendon didn't flinch, didn't blink. His eyes pierced through the reporter without emotion.

Before he could answer, Christopher stepped forward, hand raised.

"Hey — hey! He's not giving any interviews to smugs like you. This is an official investigation. Step back."

"But—"

"I said step back."

Before things could escalate, a new voice cut through the chaos.

"Canessane!"

A tall man in a long navy coat pushed through the barricade. His dark eyes and stern brow showed years of weary leadership. His hair was peppered grey and neatly combed. Detective Zuekh had arrived.

He glanced at Brendon once — briefly — then turned his scowl on Christopher. "I thought I told you to keep things low. What's this shenanigans? Walking your witness through a public circus?"

Christopher shrugged sheepishly. "Traffic lights were green, sir. I didn't expect a parade."

Zuekh snorted. "Naïve."

He turned to Brendon. "You're the one assigned to this 'Bleeding Eye' madness?"

Brendon gave a simple nod. "I am."

Zuekh raised a brow. "Not sure who signed off on that. But fine. Let's get this over with."

They passed under the tape and walked up to the front door. Inside, the air smelled faintly of alcohol and lemon-scented floor cleaner. The living room was modest. Simple furniture. Neatly arranged. A brown recliner lay facing a TV that was still on mute — frozen on a news channel.

The body sat slumped near the base of the staircase. Mid-forties, male, short hair, still in what looked like a civil servant uniform — deep navy with small brass buttons.

His eyes were missing.

The sockets were raw and sunken. The same silent brutality as the previous cases.

"Randell Carse, a civil officer," Zuekh said flatly. "Worked for the city registrar's office. No signs of forced entry. No signs of struggle. The bastard gets in like a ghost and leaves like mist."

Brendon knelt beside the body. His nose twitched once, subtly. He scanned the neck, then the fingers. No broken nails. No bruising. No struggle.

"Same MO?" he asked.

Zuekh nodded. "Near enough. But there's a twist. No weapon left behind this time. No rope. No nylon. Just this."

He pulled out a small plastic evidence bag and held it up. Inside was a crumpled piece of paper with jagged edges. The letters on it weren't handwritten — they were cut from newspapers. Brendon read it aloud:

"YOu have Given us deSpair"

Christopher frowned. "Why the weird caps?"

Zuekh shook his head. "Just a lunatic's drama. Idiot doesn't know basic grammar. Thinks he's writing like Shakespeare with glue."

Brendon stared at the note. His eyes didn't move from it for a good ten seconds.

He didn't speak.

"Something's wrong?" Christopher asked.

Brendon finally said, quietly, "The capital letters aren't random. He's trying to say something."

Zuekh rolled his eyes. "Or maybe he's just nuts."

"Perhaps," Brendon replied calmly. "Still… I'd like to look around."

Zuekh gestured with a sarcastic wave. "Sure. Be my guest. Waste more time. We've already combed the place twice."

Brendon rose and began moving through the house.

He observed how clean the tiles were, how fresh the citrus scent was — a cleaner's touch. Not the victim's. Maybe someone else had tidied recently. Or staged it. In the bedroom, the sheets were wrinkled but not messy. No drawers forced open. No sign of looting or panic. In the bathroom, water still dripped faintly from the faucet. A toothbrush with drying paste lay across the sink.

He made his way to the back.

The rear door creaked slightly as he pushed it open. A small, grassy yard spread out before him. It was simple — a few chairs stacked by a cracked concrete slab. Some dead plants in clay pots. And a shed, locked with a rusted padlock.

Brendon walked across the yard in silence.

He paused near the fence. There, in the dirt near a small patch of weeds, something glimmered.

A dart.

Its tip was faintly tarnished. The feathered tail bent, dirt clinging to it.

He picked it up, holding it by the shaft with two fingers.

Brendon looked up at the fence. Someone tall could leap it. But the surrounding area suggested something else. There were pawprints — faint — just along the edges of the flowerbed. Something light, agile. More animalistic than human.

After a moment, he headed back inside.

Zuekh was standing by the victim's chair now, arms folded, talking to an officer quietly. Christopher turned when he saw Brendon approach.

"Found anything?" he asked.

Brendon said nothing at first.

Then, with an almost casual motion, he tossed the dart gently toward Zuekh. It spun once mid-air before the detective caught it reflexively.

Brendon's voice was calm but pointed. "What I wanted to check is done."

Zuekh looked at the object in his hand, then back at Brendon.

"It seems like what you were looking for, isn't it, detective?"

Zuekh's brow furrowed. "Where did you find this?"

Brendon tilted his head slightly. "Backyard. Near the fence. Someone left it behind — someone in a hurry."

Christopher leaned closer. "You think it's a clue?"

"I think it's more than that," Brendon said. "Run a forensic test on it. See if it's coated with anything — sedative, paralyzing agent, residue. You may find more than you expect."

Zuekh frowned, then handed the dart to a nearby officer without a word. His silence was heavier than most curses.

Christopher gave Brendon a sideways grin. "Well. You made a fan."

Brendon didn't respond. His eyes were back on the living room. And his mind was running far faster than any of them could follow, thinking.... reconstructing the following of events that resulted to this.