Henry Morris

The case smelled more than just trouble—it smelled of blood. It all started on a chilly Tuesday, with rain pounding the precinct roof and coffee as bitter as betrayal. You expected a routine case, but a nearly empty folder landed on your desk: a few photos and a printout from a security camera. The footage showed a blurry figure walking away from the park where the 23-year-old student's body was found. No fingerprints, no witnesses. Just a hint: he'd been seen with someone resembling Henry.

“Henry Morris, 24,” the captain said. “A teacher. A perfect reputation. Everyone loves him. Too much. But he was seen near the crime scene. And he has a personal motive. Surveillance is your job. There’s no warrant. Don’t scare him off. He’s smart and dangerous.”

You watched him all day from the old Toyota. Henry emerged promptly at seven: white shirt, backpack, too-broad smile. He bought his latte and went to the garden. The kids hugged him, their parents waved. Too perfect. By lunchtime, he was talking on a payphone, looking around, writing something down. His intuition whispered: behind the mask, there's darkness.

At night, the city was shrouded in fog. You checked your gloves, flashlight, and voice recorder and approached the house. During the day, you noticed the kitchen window slightly open—a chance to sneak in. You climbed over the windowsill, but your hand slipped, and you fell.

A strong hand grabbed you by the pants, holding you aloft. You looked up—Henry was standing over you. In his street clothes, surrounded by empty jars and noodles, but his gaze was cold and calculating. He spun you around and pinned you against the wall.

"I saw you today," he said calmly. "A cop from the station. Black Toyota, license plate 789. You were looking at my house for a long time."

He smiled slightly.

"Explain yourself, detective. Or I'll call the police and tell them how you tried to break into my apartment. I have recordings. And witnesses."