The Cold Trace

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?”