The morning had just broken, but the courtroom was already full. Lawyers, reporters, and curious onlookers sat quietly in their designated places, eyes shifting from one face to another, all waiting for the final verdict. The air was still, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

At the center stood Adrian Voss, tall and composed in a tailored grey suit. He was a man of presence. Calm eyes. Calculated words. A defense lawyer known not just for his unmatched success, but for his deep, investigative instincts. While most lawyers relied on facts delivered to them, Adrian chased them himself. He had personally investigated dozens of cases — studied every angle, visited every site, and broken witnesses with nothing more than questions.

Today, he had just concluded another high-profile murder case — a complex one with missing evidence and media frenzy. But Adrian, once again, had turned the impossible into a clean win.

The judge’s voice echoed:

“After careful consideration, this court rules in favor of the defense. The accused is hereby found not guilty.”

The silence in the courtroom cracked like ice. A moment later, whispers began. Then movement. Adrian simply closed his file with quiet precision.

Outside the court, cameras flashed. His colleagues swarmed him.

“Adrian! You did it again!” one friend called out, slapping him on the back.

Adrian smiled faintly, not out of pride but professionalism.

“Just doing my job.”

A few laughed. “You make it look too easy.”

He shrugged. “Preparation is everything.”

And with that, he walked down the court steps, coat draped over his arm, as the city buzzed around him.

He got into his black Mercedes, where his longtime driver, Victor Hale, waited silently.

“Home,” Adrian said.

Victor nodded and pulled into the street. Rain dotted the windshield. London looked as it always did — grey, rushing, indifferent. Through the window, Adrian watched people cross roads, bury themselves in coats and umbrellas. The city felt far away.

Adrian’s apartment was located in a luxury high-rise in Canary Wharf. The 23rd floor. Smart locks, marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Thames. It was elegant — but cold. Minimalist. No photos. No clutter. Just silence and order.

Adrian lived alone. He preferred it that way. His home was spotless, every item in its place — but there was no warmth in it. No family frames, no signs of a personal life.

One room, however, broke that theme.

The door creaked open into what Adrian called his “war room.”

A wall-sized board displayed photographs, articles, red string connecting notes and timelines. Files were stacked in perfect alignment. On the desk lay a black leather-bound journal, open to today’s page.

After a hot shower and a quiet dinner of grilled salmon and wine, Adrian returned to this room, still wearing his formal shirt, sleeves rolled up.

He picked up his pen and began writing:

Case Closed.

The witness testimonies aligned after the pressure I applied in cross. It was psychological — not legal. Truth wasn’t enough; it had to be shown. The judge responded. I knew he would.

He paused.

But something’s off. That photo… The blood angle. It doesn’t fit. It’s done now, but why do I feel like I missed something?

He closed the journal, placed it carefully back on the shelf, and turned off the lights.

In his bedroom, everything was crisp and white. Clean sheets. No clutter. Only a small nightstand, a single lamp, and silence.

He lay down, closed his eyes, and let the quiet settle around him.

It was just another night in a perfectly controlled life.

But beneath the surface — something had begun to shift.

London’s pale morning light crept between the blinds as Adrian Voss fastened his watch and adjusted the collar of his black shirt. The apartment around him was silent as ever — cold tiles, clean surfaces, a fresh suit hanging by the door. Every part of his morning ran like clockwork: shower, espresso, case notes review.

Just as he buttoned his cuff, his phone rang.

He checked the screen: Nathan Brooks.

“Hello, good morning,” Adrian answered, calm as always.

“Adrian! Get here fast,” Nathan’s voice was breathless on the other end. “There’s a new case waiting for you — and this one’s… strange.”

Adrian narrowed his eyes. “Strange how?”

“You’ll see. It’s not just another file — this one’s different.”

Adrian’s mind sharpened. He didn’t ask more. Instead, he slipped his phone into his coat pocket, picked up his investigation satchel — always packed with gloves, notebooks, and digital tools — and left.

Downstairs, Victor Hale was already waiting in the car.

“To the office,” Adrian said.

Victor gave a small nod and pulled into the soft drizzle of London’s grey streets. Buildings passed in a blur of glass and brick. Adrian sat back, staring at the traffic with a mind already racing toward whatever lay ahead.

As the car pulled up to his office — a modern steel-and-glass structure nestled between older stone façades — Adrian stepped out and climbed the wide concrete steps.

Then he stopped.

Mid-step.

A flash.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

For a moment — just a blink — the world around him melted away, and in its place he saw a girl.

She was lying motionless on a cold metal table. Pale skin, dark hair, blank eyes staring upward. The fluorescent light above her flickered in eerie silence.

And just like that — the image vanished.

Adrian grabbed his forehead. Cold sweat kissed his temples. He wasn’t one to panic — not ever — but his pulse skipped.

“What the hell was that…” he muttered under his breath.

“Adrian!” came a voice from the door. Nathan.

He looked up, composed himself. “I’m fine. Just thinking.”

Nathan’s eyes lingered a second longer. “You sure? You look pale.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Adrian followed him in, pushing the image aside like he would push a misplaced detail in a case. But something about it stuck — not fear, but familiarity.

Inside, the office was buzzing. Staff at their desks. Files being copied. Voices low and efficient.

Nathan handed him a brown envelope. “It’s a murder. Girl. No signs of struggle. No forced entry. No fingerprints. Just… her, on a table, like she was placed there. Alone.”

Adrian’s hands tightened on the folder.

“Where?” he asked.

“East End. Police want discretion. No leaks. They want your take.”

Adrian opened the file.

And froze.

A photograph. Crime scene. The girl’s face.

The same girl. The same position. The same flickering light. Everything exactly as he saw it in the vision minutes ago.

But how?

He didn’t say a word.

Nathan was watching him. “You okay?”

Adrian slowly nodded. “Yeah… Just tired.”

He placed the folder on his desk but kept looking at the image, as if by sheer force of will he could find a flaw — some hint that it was all just a trick of the mind.

But there wasn’t.

This wasn’t coincidence. This wasn’t logical.

And Adrian Voss did not believe in anything outside logic.

Yet here it was.

The wind in East End was sharper than usual that day, slicing through the narrow streets like cold steel. Grey clouds hovered low, casting a dull and lifeless hue over the city’s oldest alleys. The buildings stood tired and crooked, soaked in decades of grime, as if the area itself was trying to hide from the world.

Adrian Voss stepped out of the car, tightening his charcoal overcoat against the biting wind. His eyes scanned the building ahead — a decaying brick structure with moss creeping up the walls and broken windowpanes staring like empty eyes. A flickering streetlamp buzzed near the entrance, casting stuttering shadows across the pavement.

A single police barrier stretched across the main door, hanging loosely, forgotten. It didn’t feel like an active crime scene. It felt like a place the world had already abandoned.

Behind him, Victor Hale pulled the car into a tight curb and waited in silence.

Adrian's shoes clicked against the damp pavement as he approached the entrance.

At the door stood Detective Inspector Lee, arms folded, jaw tight. His coat collar was turned up, and there was a visible irritation in his stance.

“You took your time,” Lee said without preamble.

Adrian met his gaze with a cool calm. “I take time seriously.”

Lee exhaled. “You’ll need it today.”

He pushed open the heavy door, motioning Adrian inside. “It’s… unusual. Even for you.”

The flat was small — one room, one dim window, and walls painted in a yellowing white. A heavy stillness clung to the space. Dust floated in beams of natural light. Everything looked… paused. As though the room had exhaled and never drawn another breath.

In the center stood a worn, wooden table. No cloth. No personal objects. Just the faint outline where the girl had been found — perfectly centered.

“She was lying right here,” Lee said, stepping forward. “No wounds. No blood. No signs of struggle. And no ID. Just placed here like a doll.”

Adrian didn’t respond immediately. He walked around the table, observing every corner. The air felt dense, and something about the symmetry of the room unsettled him.

No broken glass. No signs of forced entry. The door had been locked from the inside. The single window was also bolted. Fifth floor. No fire escape.

“How did she even get in?” Adrian murmured.

“We were hoping you’d tell us,” Lee said dryly.

Adrian pulled out his notebook and began jotting quick notes. As he moved, every creak in the floor felt louder than it should have been — as if the house was listening. He scanned each inch with practiced eyes, noting a light scratch on the wall, a crooked floorboard near the window.

Then something caught his attention.

A single chair in the far corner, turned over. Not smashed — not scattered — just… tipped. Deliberately?

Adrian walked toward it. Slowly. Kneeling, he ran his fingers along the underside.

There.

A faint carving. Almost invisible in the low light.

A symbol — a circle with a vertical line slicing through it. Like an eye. Or a keyhole.

Lee, noticing, joined him. “You see something?”

Adrian didn’t answer right away. He took out his phone and snapped a photo.

“I’ve seen this before,” he said quietly, standing.

Lee straightened. “Where?”

Adrian’s eyes remained on the wall as his voice dropped. “In an older case. Six years ago. A cold one. We never solved it.”

Lee blinked. “You think this is connected?”

Adrian didn’t reply.

Instead, he walked to the window, staring out at the city beyond — the rooftops, the chimney stacks, the pale sky.

Behind him, Lee muttered under his breath, “What the hell’s going on here?”

Adrian turned slowly, gaze falling one last time on the empty table where the girl had once been.

This wasn’t just a murder.

It was a message.

And he knew — without a doubt — it was meant for him.