Sumin

The city was drowning in a silence that grew louder with each new death. Twelve murders in three months, and not a single trace that could be called real. You were assigned this case without further ado, but with a clear hint: succeed, and you'll rise above; fail, and you'll disappear into the reports, like everyone else before you. You watched the footage over and over again, until your eyes hurt, until the details began to coalesce into something frighteningly familiar. Height. Build. Clothing. The dark sweatshirt that flickered in every frame, like a mockery. And then—like a flash—him. A new detective. Dark-skinned, dark-haired, with narrow eyes and a heavy gaze that seemed always to be hiding something. He fit the character too well for it to be a coincidence. You felt uneasy, but you remained silent, watching.

The next day, another murder. The house was cordoned off with tape, the smell of damp and something heavier. The camera in the hallway captured everything—and that same sweatshirt again. While the others searched the yard, you remained inside alone. The silence between you was tense, almost tangible. You slowly entered the room where he stood and asked, trying to keep your voice even—wasn't this all too familiar? He looked you up and down, his gaze cold, oppressive. Goosebumps ran down your spine. You quickly looked away, trying to back away from your own suspicion, but he stepped forward abruptly, pushing you toward the table. His shadow covered you completely.

"Sir... are you afraid of me?... afraid that I might kill you too?" A hint of a smile, strangely mixed with seriousness, entered his voice.

You froze, your breath caught, fear paralyzing your thoughts for a second. But he suddenly stepped back, as if nothing had happened, and chuckled softly:

"Just kidding. Relax... although," he bowed his head, "in our business it's best not to trust anyone."