In the Alley

Evening poured itself over the Paris skyline in shades of crimson and violet, the city dipping into a quieter hum as streetlights flickered on one by one. Within the dim confines of Christopher's apartment, Brendon lay flat on the guest bed, unmoving. The ceiling above had become a canvas for his wandering thoughts, a static mirror to his agitation.

His phone buzzed once.

Brendon picked it up lazily. A new photo from Detective Zuekh. Evidence catalogued from the latest murder — close-up shots of the rope, the bloodied knife, and of course, the new typewritten note.

He swiped to the previous photos. The old notes. One English, one French.

His brows furrowed. Something was off. The capitalizations, the wording, even the ink pressure… They didn't feel like the work of one consistent hand.

He sat up suddenly.

The apartment was quiet. He turned to the kitchen — no sign of Christopher.

Brendon tilted his head and smirked. "How naïve," he muttered. "I got out of your house yesterday and you didn't even ask how."

He rolled off the bed and knelt beside his bag. From within a fold of his jacket, he pulled out the small bundle of hairpins he'd pocketed back at the police lab.

He twirled one between his fingers. "These'll work better than that damn credit card trick."

He approached the apartment's door lock. Click — click — click. It only took moments.

He stepped into the hall, hoodie pulled over his head. The door closed quietly behind him.

---

The deeper corners of the 12th arrondissement held a different Paris. One not on postcards. One without tour buses or polished marble statues. Here the streetlights flickered like broken neon promises, and the hybrids lived in crumbling apartments and makeshift homes beneath train bridges.

Brendon walked until he reached a small campfire circle near a construction site. Several figures huddled together, eyes cautious, expressions worn by time and mistrust.

He approached slowly, hands visible.

"Not looking for a fight," he said. "I just need to talk."

A fox-eared woman in a threadbare coat narrowed her eyes. "You're one of them, aren't you?"

Brendon shook his head. "I'm nothing. Just someone who wants answers. A seeker of truth."

There was a long pause. Then a gruff voice from the side — a bulldog-faced anthro with broad shoulders and a cigarette hanging from his mouth — spoke up. "What kind of answers, young man?"

"About what it's like. Living here. Under the system."

A younger hybrid with bird-like feathers running along her arms scoffed. "What do you think it's like? We get spat on. Watched. Turned away from hospitals and schools. Some of us can't even get ID papers."

A thin older man with mole-like eyes leaned forward. "They say we're dangerous. But who's been killing who? Ain't no hybrid doin' that."

A rabbit-eared man, maybe in his twenties, looked down at his child beside him. "My son's been sick for a week. No doctor would even see him unless I had a 'verified address.' What the hell does that mean?"

A large lizard-like hybrid spoke in a low, bitter voice. "We used to have a council — a small one. Voice for the underground. But gradually they were silenced. One by one."

Brendon listened quietly, taking it all in.

"Some of us think the government lets these murders happen," the bulldog anthro added. "Stirs fear. Fear keeps hybrids in check."

"They don't want justice," muttered the rabbit woman. "They want compliance."

Brendon nodded solemnly. "Thank you. This will help me a lot. I won't forget this."

Then he leaves the place. He looks at the top.... the sky he feels the grief of these people.

---

Back to Christopher's Apartment

As night began falling in earnest, Brendon took a shortcut through an alley lined with overflowing dumpsters and graffiti-covered walls. The streetlamps barely reached here. His thoughts tangled with what he'd just heard.

These murders… They're not just messages. They're calculated. Designed to shake public trust. Or maybe to stir something worse. Because this is actually hurting hybrids situation.

While he was thinking, then he felt it.

The sudden shift in air behind him.

Too late.

A crack sounded as something hard slammed into the back of his head. The world spun. He dropped to one knee. His nostrils flared — but his senses were dulled. He couldn't smell whoever it was.

Cornflour, his mind screamed. They're using cornflour!

Before he could rise, thick arms wrapped around his neck, attempting to choke him out.

Brendon coughed, vision darkening at the edges. But rage overpowered panic. His hand lashed backward, elbow jamming into his attacker's ribs. He twisted, feet planting hard, and rammed his shoulder backward.

There was a grunt — and Brendon broke free.

He turned just in time to see a masked figure stumbling backward. He lunged, fists ready, but the attacker slipped into the shadows. In the scuffle, Brendon's hand tore at the assailant's sleeve — ripping off a piece of dark fabric.

Brendon didn't chase. He bolted.

His breathing was ragged by the time he reached Christopher's apartment.

Lockpick back in hand, he slipped in silently. Once inside, he slammed the door, locked it, and dropped to the floor.

His hand shook as he opened it.

The scrap of fabric was damp with sweat. Cheap, synthetic material. But it is a clue.

And this time, he has no doubt.

Someone doesn't just want to stop him.

They wants to silence him.