★ Indelible Traces ☆

The rain didn't stop.

As if the entire city had forgotten how to breathe the moment he entered the room.

Adrien von Linden had left—but the air hadn't moved. It remained standing in the corner of the office, cold, still… saturated with all that hadn't been said.

I hadn't touched the watch.

But it hadn't left my sight since I walked in.

It still sat there, staring from a wooden shelf as if it had been waiting for me… as if it knew.

How many gold watches were made in this model? Thousands? Millions?

But how many of them had a tiny scratch near the number "7"? Barely visible—unless you were looking for it.

And I was.

My body froze. My thoughts ran in every direction—and every direction led back to him.

My father.

I turned toward the window where Adrien had stood. The rain washed the glass clean, but it didn't erase anything.

"Detective Baumann?"

Hoffmann's voice pulled me back.

"The prosecutor's office approved the body's transfer to the morgue. But you said… something was off about the watch?"

I shook my head slowly.

"I'm still checking."

I didn't tell him the truth.

Not yet.

"Cybercrime is sending someone to examine the phone and computer. Do you want to stay for that?"

"Yes."

Because I couldn't leave.

He stepped out, leaving me alone.

With the body that said nothing… and the watch that said far too much.

✦✦✦✦

Temporary Interview Room, Fifth Floor…

His wife, his daughter Livia. And me.

"Did your husband know Adrien von Linden personally?"

"Yes, they worked together for years. But they weren't real friends. It was all business… cold, mostly."

"Did you notice anything strange lately? Behavior, calls, visitors?"

She hesitated—then looked at her daughter.

Livia answered for her, her voice shaking:

"A week ago… I saw Dad talking to a man I didn't recognize. In the hallway of the building. He was furious. The door slammed shut. I asked who the man was. He said just a businessman from out of town."

I noted it.

"Do you remember his face?"

"Gray hair, short. Dark eyes. Didn't look like a businessman at all… more like an ex-soldier."

The cybercrime team arrived.

They carried in the victim's laptop and phone, moved them to a separate room. One of them said:

"The phone's encrypted. Heavily. Way beyond what we'd expect from a regular businessman."

"Can you unlock it?"

"It'll take time."

I stepped out.

I wasn't looking for data or files… I was looking for something else.

Something like that photo.

I went back to the drawer where we'd found it, reopened it.

Nothing new. No more photos.

But the inside of the drawer… felt odd.

I ran my fingers along the back edge—click.

A small panel inside gave way.

I pulled out a small notebook, bound in dark leather. No title.

A journal.

I opened it.

Symbols.

Encrypted patterns. Repeated lines. A few scribbled phrases in shaky handwriting:

"J.M. knows too much."

"Memory can be more dangerous than truth itself."

My heart raced.

J.M.

The same initials on the back of the photo.

✦✦✦✦

The corridor near the elevator, on my way out…

I saw him.

He stood at the far end, beside the tall glass window that overlooked the city drowning in gray rain.

One arm outstretched, cigarette smoldering slowly between his fingers.

No tension in his body. No discomfort.

As if the corpse behind him meant nothing.

Why had he stayed?

What was he waiting for?

And why didn't he seem the slightest bit sad?

This wasn't just a businessman visiting a dead friend.

This was… something else.

No one else was around.

I walked toward him.

Each step felt heavier, like the air thickened around him.

"Mr. von Linden."

He didn't turn.

He exhaled slowly. Watched the smoke draw shapes against the glass.

"Do you always linger at crime scenes? Or is today… special?"

His voice flowed like silk—like the rain itself had spoken:

"Death has rituals, Ms. Baumann. Some people scream. Others collapse.

Me… I smoke."

I swallowed my unease. Tried to keep my tone professional.

"I have a few questions. If that's alright?"

He finally turned.

His blue eyes hit mine like a spotlight piercing fog.

"Of course. Ask anything.

I like questions."

He smiled—without a trace of warmth.

"What was your relationship with the victim?"

"Ordinary. Work. Meetings. A few disagreements. Nothing worth a bullet to the head—if that's what you're asking."

I noted it.

But something in his tone made me glance up from my notebook.

"Why did you come here so fast?"

He looked out over the city again, then said:

"Maybe… because I got the call before you did."

He paused. Tilted his head slightly toward me:

"Or maybe… to see you."

A chill shot through me.

Sharp. Too quick. Not easily cornered.

"To see me… as a suspect?"

I threw the question deliberately.

He smiled again.

A small, dangerous curve of his lips.

"Lovely, how you try to keep control."

He stepped closer.

"But allow me a question in return…"

I didn't move.

"Is it normal for your right hand to tremble slightly when you write?"

I froze.

"Just observing, don't worry. I have sharp eyes."

I tried to recover.

"Enough with the observations. Were you with him last night?"

He inhaled deeply, the cigarette burning brighter.

His gaze never left mine.

"If I said yes… would you arrest me?

And if I said no… would you believe me?"

I didn't answer.

He spoke again, quieter, like whispering to himself:

"Your problem, Ms. Baumann… is that you think truth is pure.

But in my world… it melts in mud."

He crushed the cigarette between bare fingers—no wince.

Then turned to go.

Before he walked away, he said in a near-whisper:

"You seem very strong…

But I've seen faces like yours before.

The ones who don't know when to stop…

are always the first to fall."

Then he vanished, leaving behind only the weight of his words and the echo in my head.

His steps had faded. But the sound of his voice clung to my thoughts like a distant siren—too faint to catch… too sharp to forget.

I remained frozen at the window. Rain etched stories onto the glass, onto the city.

Then I saw him.

Downstairs. At the building's entrance, right below the window where I stood.

A black luxury car. So dark it looked carved out of night itself.

Someone opened the door for him—a man in a tailored black suit. His posture rigid, his grip military.

But it was the sunglasses that stood out.

He wore them… in the dark.

Adrien didn't get in right away.

He stood there.

Then slowly lifted his head.

And looked at me.

Direct. Unflinching. No doubt.

As if he'd known I was watching.

As if… he saw me before I saw him.

He smiled.

Not just any smile.

Cold. Precise. Calm in a terrifying way.

As if to say: "It's begun now… and you're already a step behind."

Then he turned.

As if nothing had happened.

He climbed into the car.

The door shut with a gentleness that chilled me more than any slam.

And the car disappeared into the wet street—fading into the night.

I stood there, still staring.

My trembling hand clutched my notebook.

The list of suspects blurred in my vision for a moment.

But this time…

His name wasn't just ink on a page.

It was etched—deep—into my mind.