Evan

Rain soaks your coat as you stand over the body. Another victim, and the pattern is too precise to be considered random. The city whispers of a serial killer, but you see cold intent in it: perfect cuts, no hesitation, no remorse.

Your partner, Officer Evan Hale, approaches you. Calm, attentive, always the first to notice details. “The handwriting is the same,” he says.

The investigation leads not down alleys, but into the archives of old hospitals. Amidst dusty documents, one doctor confesses: there exists a rare hereditary mutation, X-Δ17, that suppresses fear, empathy, and guilt. Such people derive no pleasure from pain—violence merely fills an inner void.

At night, you remember the investigation and understand: Evan always directed you to the right clues, too precisely, too carefully.

The next murder happens faster. You arrive at the apartment before the others. It's too clean. Evan is calmly smoking by the window.

• You are looking for someone who does not perceive the world the same way you do.

You feel a cold understanding.

“You’re too close to this matter…” you whisper.

“I know,” he replies. “I’m inside it.”

You can barely pronounce:

— Evan... what if this gene is not just a theory?

He takes a step closer.

— What if the proof is right in front of you?