Shadow Assassin

Christopher's old sedan rattled through the congested arteries of central Paris, coughing exhaust as it squeezed between buses and scooters. The evening had settled into the city with its usual symphony of honking, impatient drivers, and the flicker of neon over café terraces.

The Paris Police Station stood like a fortress wedged among older stone buildings — modern on the inside, but still bearing the architecture of post-war reconstruction. Fluorescent lights hummed just beneath the carved stone gargoyles perched above its entrance.

Christopher parked at the curb, hopping out and locking the doors with a mechanical click. Brendon followed wordlessly, his sharp amber eyes scanning every movement around them.

They passed through the glass doors into a flood of stimuli.

The station lobby was packed.

A young beaver anthro yelled about a stolen bike, gesturing wildly. A human couple argued with a tired-looking clerk over noise complaints. Somewhere in the back, a crying baby pierced the air. Brendon's enhanced senses picked up all of it — the tang of sweat, stale perfume, printer ink, and underlying tension.

Christopher led the way, weaving through the chaos. Brendon followed closely behind, eyes flicking left and right.

"Busy tonight," Brendon murmured.

"It's Paris, it is the usual." Christopher said, pushing through a side door. "To be honest this is light today, actually."

Down a stairwell, through a secure checkpoint, they descended into the lower levels of the complex. As the noise above faded, the halls below grew colder, quieter. Metal doors lined the corridor until they reached one marked Forensic Division.

Inside, the hum of lab equipment and a soft scent of antiseptics greeted them.

Two figures stood waiting.

"Ah, Detective Christopher," said the taller one. It was Detective Zuekh, his sharply cut coat half-open, revealing a black vest beneath.

"Glad you made it here in time. And I see you brought your friend. What's gis name again? Brendon Wolf, right?"

"Correct." Christopher said. "As always."

Zuekh nodded, then turned to the second man in the room.

"Dr. Ferland Banik," he said. "Our head of forensics."

Dr. Banik stepped forward, offering a firm handshake to Brendon. He was in his early fifties, with an elegant air about him — silver hair brushed back neatly, round spectacles perched on a straight nose. He wore a navy lab coat instead of the usual white, and his Anglo-French accent rolled with precise articulation.

"A pleasure," Banik said. "I must say, your eye for detail is impressive. That dart... it's going to help us."

"What have you found?" Christopher asked, stepping closer.

Banik led them to a nearby workstation, where the dart sat under a glass casing. Its nib was indeed fractured — a jagged edge of silver, sharp but bent.

"Firstly," Banik said, "this dart contains a synthesized poison — a highly refined variant of aconitine, one that induces rapid cardiac failure. A very rare compound. Whoever used this knew their craft."

Brendon crossed his arms. "Meaning it wasn't just some street assassin."

"Exactly," Banik said. "Which brings me to the second clue — the nib is broken."

"From impact?" Zuekh asked.

"Yes, but not from striking a hard surface. From force," Banik replied. "It shattered because it was fired at extremely close range. No dart gun can break it from a distance. This kind of break suggests a short burst — perhaps a foot or two away. That implies the killer was right there. With the victim."

Christopher frowned. "But there's no sign of struggle at the scene. No broken windows. No signs of forced entry."

"Which is why," Banik said, "we believe the killer was someone familiar to the victim. Close. Trusted. Otherwise, why allow them to get that close, armed?"

Zuekh tapped the desk with his gloved fingers. "That's a hell of a deduction."

"It's what we do," Banik said with a modest smile.

Zuekh turned to Brendon. "This helps a lot. We're narrowing the list now. Good work — both of you."

"Thanks, Dr. Banik," Christopher said.

The others began to move toward the exit. As Brendon trailed behind, something caught his eye.

A set of metallic hairpins rested carelessly on the corner of the forensic reception desk. Nobody seemed to notice them — no tags, no containers, just there.

His eyes narrowed.

Hairpins... Not exactly lock picks. But close enough.

Without hesitation, he palmed a few, slipping them into the inner pocket of his coat. Quiet. Unseen.

He didn't flinch. He didn't ask. He didn't need to.

---

Back in Christopher's sedan, the night had grown darker, the Paris lights painting the windshield in streaks of red and amber. The city still throbbed with life, but inside the car, there was silence.

Brendon stared at his hand, fingers brushing lightly against the pocket where the pins now rested.

He didn't speak. Not even when Christopher asked if he was hungry again.

He was lost in a memory.

---

Radley.

A voice from the past. A shadow in the corner of a dark alley. The warm scent of grease and leather. A figure kneeling beside a small, frightened wolf pup clutching a rusted compass and a bruised arm.

"Boy," Radley said once, voice low and raspy, "there's nothing good or bad in this world when it comes to survival. Morals don't feed you. And heroes don't last."

Young Brendon looked up, wide-eyed. "But… I don't want to steal."

Radley grunted. "Then die clean, pup. Or live dirty and protect those who matter. You can't do both."

And later, when Brendon learned to slip pins into locks, to open doors not meant for him, Radley whispered, "Never let an opportunity go. But never abandon your people either. Because you can't survive alone forever."

---

The pins felt cold in Brendon's hand now.

He remembered Radley's weathered face. The old compass he gave him — their only keepsake. The one Brendon lost last year on Lagooncrest Island. Gone. Just like the man who gave it.

Christopher glanced at him briefly. "You alright?"

Brendon blinked. Slowly, he nodded. "Yeah. Just thinking."

"About the case?"

Brendon's eyes narrowed slightly as he looked out at the passing lights.

"Something like that."

The car rolled into the familiar street near Christopher's apartment, the city slowly fading into quieter alleys.

The investigation had started.

But for Brendon, the weight of survival — and memory — had already returned.