Ce n’est qu’un début

The morning sun broke lazily over Paris, painting the skyline in sleepy gold. The street below Christopher's apartment hummed with life — honking scooters, chattering pedestrians, bakery doors opening with soft chimes.

Brendon had just come out of the shower, a towel draped around his shoulders. For once, there was silence in his mind. No ghosts. No dreams. He almost thought it would stay like that.

But normalcy never lasted long.

He turned on the television, mostly out of habit. Static flickered for a moment, then the screen sharpened to a local news channel.

"—nous rapportons une autre scène de crime macabre ce matin," said the anchor in French before switching the language of the TV to English, "Another victim discovered in the early hours today. Police have confirmed the murder shares chilling similarities with the case from earlier this week and all the cases over past ten years…"

Brendon froze. The screen shifted to a grim roadside footage blocked off by yellow tape and flashing lights. A photo of the victim — blurred for viewer safety — flashed up in the corner.

Female. In her late twenties. Still in uniform.

His stomach turned.

"Christopher!" he called.

From the kitchen, the sound of a plate hitting the counter echoed.

"What?" came Christopher's voice. He stepped out moments later, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. "Really, man. You are shouting at 9 AM already?"

"Look at the TV," Brendon said.

Christopher turned.

The sandwich in his hand never made it to his mouth.

The news anchor continued, "...officer identified as Claire Renaud, member of the Paris Police Department. Authorities confirm she was on a routine patrol last night when she was murdered. Details remain classified, but unofficial sources mention the eyes were removed and a typewritten note was found near the body…"

Christopher's mouth parted in disbelief. "Oh… no. I... I just talked to her last night via phone. And now..."

"That's the same method," Brendon said, sitting down, towel now forgotten. "Strangulation. Missing eyes."

"Another note too," Christopher said. "This is.... this is bad. Real bad."

Brendon narrowed his eyes. "We need to get there. Right now."

---

The street was cordoned off when they arrived twenty minutes later. A row of police cars lined the pavement, blue and white lights blinking into the morning air. A chalk outline had already been drawn near the body — now covered and taken for autopsy. The scent of dried blood still lingered in the air.

Detective Zuekh spotted them from across the tape and waved them through.

"Morning," he said grimly. "Though not a good one."

Christopher crossed his arms. "Another murder. Just days after the murder in Rue Lenoir in southeast Paris."

Zuekh nodded, then glanced at Brendon. "This one's even messier. Definitely the same killer, without a doubt."

"What happened exactly?" Brendon asked, scanning the scene.

Zuekh gestured. "Victim was Officer Claire Renaud. She was finishing her shift. CCTV caught her walking this route alone, around 2:17 AM. Ten minutes later, a street cleaner found her dead body here — strangled with a rope. Same missing eyes. But this time, we found some things."

He pointed down.

The rope, stained dark red, was curled on the sidewalk. Next to it, a knife — old, thin, jagged. Blood crusted the edge.

"Any stab wounds?" Brendon asked.

Zuekh shook his head. "None. No defensive injuries either. It's as if she was immobilized instantly. We're analyzing if the blood on the knife even belongs to her."

"And the note?" Christopher asked.

Zuekh handed over a clear plastic evidence pouch. Inside was a rectangle of yellowed paper with a message in clean, mechanical font:

> "Ce n'est qu'un début."

"Gentleman I would be really happy if you translate it for me. I can't understand French." Brendon tells Zuekh showing his finger at the note.

Christopher translated aloud. "This is just a start."

Brendon leaned closer. "It's in French?"

Zuekh raised an eyebrow. "Yeah! Obviously. We are in France, after all."

"No," Brendon said, frowning. "All previous notes were written in English. Why change the language now? Why switch to French all of a sudden?"

Christopher folded his arms. "It could be symbolic. A warning specifically for the city. Or… maybe the killer wants to sound more dramatic now. Like the villains in Sherlock Holmes series."

"Or it's a message meant for someone else entirely," Brendon muttered, eyes scanning the street.

He crouched near the edge of the tape, observing the sidewalk. No footprints. No unusual markings. Just Parisian dust, bits of crushed cigarette butts, and discarded paper.

"This place has too much foot traffic," he said. "Any evidence could've been trampled."

Zuekh nodded. "That's why forensics is trying to recover data from nearby security cams. But the corner where she died… it's in a blind spot."

"Of course it is," Brendon murmured.

He stared at the buildings nearby. Apartment windows, most shuttered. A couple of balconies. No eyewitnesses. It was a perfect setup.

As they stood there in thought, Brendon's mind went back to the note from the last victim. The weird capital letters. An odd emphasis. And now this — a change in language. Each clue was like a fragment of a much larger riddle. He need to piece it together in peace.

Someone is taunting them.

---

The air felt colder on the ride back to Christopher's apartment. Neither of them have spoke much.

Brendon held the typewritten quote in his mind like a thread. "Ce n'est qu'un début."

It isn't just a warning. It is a promise.

And he has no doubt that the killer intends to keep it.