★ The Corpse That Was Waiting for Me ☆

Rain fell in a soft whisper, not striking the earth with force, but marking it with a kind of silence. The marble streets of Zurich looked as though they were rinsing away someone's sins. But I wasn't naive enough to believe rain could purify souls.

Rain in this city warned.

It hid.

I raised the collar of my dark gray wool coat, its edges damp. The morning air pierced my bones like a long, glass needle. Six a.m. The sun hadn't yet made up its mind.

The building appeared before I reached it: a tall glass monolith, police car lights reflected in red and blue across its ash-gray surface. Nine stories of glass and concrete, each one gleaming as if it had eyes—watching me.

I walked with steady steps, crossing under the yellow police tape coiled around the entrance like a strangling serpent. Wet footprints from medics marked the stone floor, and a faint metallic scent mingled with the rain and plastic.

The police presence was orderly, yet tense. Behind the tape stood a woman with hastily tied dark hair, a luxurious coat thrown over wool pajamas, yelling, "My daughter wants to see him! That's my husband! Are you not letting me in?"

Beside her stood a teenage girl wrapped in a gray blanket, her face pale, eyes wide and brimming with tears. Two officers were trying to calm them.

I didn't approach. Not yet.

Everything in its time.

"Detective Baumann?"

I turned instantly.

Hoffmann, the commanding officer.

His voice still the same—sharp, but void of warmth. His face hadn't changed since our first meeting; rigid, as if time passed him by but forgot to finish the job.

"The body's inside, ninth floor. No one's touched a thing."

I nodded and followed him inside.

A cold lobby, plastic plants, framed photos, and an expensive perfume that masked nothing.

In the elevator, my reflection stared back from the polished metal wall: pale, sleepless eyes, a hair tie loosening slightly from the humidity. I glanced down at my hands. My fingers trembled—just barely.

Stop. Don't show it.

I wasn't nervous. I was just… prepared for the unsaid.

When the elevator doors opened, a different air hit me.

The floor felt still—like it had just woken from a bad dream. Dark wood-paneled walls. A soft gray carpet that muffled even breath. Everything too clean.

The office door was half open, as if left that way on purpose.

I pushed it gently. Entered.

A spacious, luxurious room, untouched by struggle.

Dim morning light slipped between half-closed blinds, gleaming over a smooth desk: neatly arranged papers, a half-full cup of cold coffee, a metal pen, and—

A gleaming gold watch on a side shelf.

Then… I saw it.

The body.

Lying by the window; legs unnaturally folded, head tilted, eyes half-open. A final look, frozen somewhere I couldn't see.

I stepped closer. No scent of blood. No warmth left.

The right hand open, a pistol beside it—placed, not dropped.

"Looks like a suicide."

The voice came from an officer behind me.

I didn't turn. I murmured, "That's what worries me."

My fingers slid under his hand and pulled out a sheet of paper.

No letters. No punctuation. Just white space—like a silent challenge.

I looked up at the watch.

Not just any watch.

Same model. Same color. Same tiny scratch on the glass…

Everything identical.

The very watch my father was wearing when his body was found.

(An inner silence. A slow breath.)

Coincidence… or message?

Before the question finished forming, the elevator hummed again.

Metallic doors. Measured footsteps approaching…

And then—he entered.

Tall enough to draw every eye.

Well over six feet. A coal-black coat ending mid-calf. Slicked dark hair with a few rebellious strands disrupting the perfect line—proof that even order can't escape chaos. Crisp white shirt. Gray tie. A single leather glove on his left hand.

His blue eyes shimmered under the soft light.

Not grief. Not shock.

He wasn't saying goodbye. He was reading the scene.

He stood at the threshold, delaying his words just a moment too long—Theater.

Then:

"He was my friend."

His voice—deep, steady. No tremor.

I looked at him, something inside whispered: beware.

He said, "I can't believe he's… gone."

The tone? Too rehearsed. Like a line memorized before a camera rolls.

He stepped in. His eyes swept over the body… the window… the watch.

I whispered to Hoffmann, "Who is that?"

He replied, "Adrien von Linden. Well-known businessman. Owns half the shares in this building. Victim's partner."

I stepped forward, closing the gap between him and the desk.

"Mr. von Linden, unauthorized personnel are not allowed at a crime scene."

He turned to me. No anger. But his gaze pierced—calm… dangerous.

"I'm not leaving. Not until I know the truth."

"Protocol is clear—"

Hoffmann cut in sharply: "Let him stay, Baumann. He's got official clearance from the prosecutor."

I clenched my jaw.

Justice, weighed in shares?

Adrien turned to me, his smile half-drawn:

"I promise I won't touch anything… unless you ask me to."

Before I could respond, the door jolted open. The officer at the entrance struggled to hold back the woman from downstairs—the wife.

Her elegant coat now soaked, eyeliner smudged beneath her eyes.

"Where is he? Where's my husband?! Let me in!"

She pushed past the tape, nearly stumbling.

Behind her, the girl in the hospital blanket trembled.

Hoffmann stepped forward: "Mrs. Meier, please… It's not ready for viewing."

She cried out, "I'm his wife! I want to see him! Livia, stay back—"

The girl lifted her head, red-eyed:

"Mom… they said Dad was depressed. He wasn't. He wasn't…"

I looked at her.

Touched her shoulder gently. "I'm sorry. You can't enter just yet. But I'll need to ask you a few questions. It'll help."

The wife sobbed, "Last night… last night was the last time we spoke. He said he'd be working late. Someone was coming over. Then the call dropped."

My eyes slid to Adrien.

He smiled… neutrally.

She asked, pointing at the desk:

"Are those his things?"

Then her gaze landed on the watch. She froze.

"That… that's not his. He doesn't wear gold. He hates gold."

Livia nodded quickly: "Yeah, Dad always wore silver or black. Never gold."

So the watch—added. Not his.

I circled the item in my notepad.

Why wear something that isn't yours?

And why the exact same watch my father wore?

The coroner entered. Short, nearly bald, with a gray bag.

He knelt, examined, took notes.

"No gunpowder residue on the hand. No signs of struggle. Possible postmortem repositioning. Body's colder than expected."

I looked at Adrien.

His eyes gleamed. He said nothing.

Minutes later, the coroner and Hoffmann left to finalize procedures.

The wife and daughter were taken to another room.

I remained… almost alone.

Adrien still stood near the window, one hand in his pocket, a slanted shoulder as if the cold didn't touch him.

Among the desk papers, I noticed a wooden drawer left slightly ajar.

I knelt. Opened it.

Inside… an old black-and-white photo.

Three men. The victim, younger. Adrien at his side—longer hair, half-smile. A third man, unfamiliar.

I flipped it over.

No clear date. Frayed edges. Two letters on the back: J.M.

I asked, still staring:

"Who's the third guy?"

Silence.

I looked up.

He wasn't where I left him. Closer now.

His head tilted slightly to the right.

The shadows sketched a faint, crooked smile across his lips—one that had nothing to do with grief.

He spoke in a voice low and razor-sharp:

"Detective… there are things that, once uncovered, can never be put back."

The air thickened. I felt it in my chest.

He continued, slower… deeper:

"Some doors… are better left unopened. Even if you have the key."

I didn't speak.

I placed the photo back. Closed the drawer.

From the hallway came the faint sound of crying—

The wife's or the daughter's, I couldn't tell.

Adrien looked outward, then back at me.

Whispered:

"You're looking in the right place…

Which means many will try to convince you otherwise."

I froze.

He left first.

Didn't look back.

I stood alone in the office. Rain tapping at the glass.

The gold watch gleamed under the cold light.

If it wasn't the victim's…

Why was it here?

Why did it mirror the watch of a man who died eight years ago?

There was more than one corpse in this room.

There was a history waiting to be unearthed.

And I…

Was standing at its doorstep.