Roger

The soft purr of the Maserati's engine faded into the garage. Roger stepped out of the car, adjusted his perfectly fitting Brioni jacket with a practiced gesture, and entered his mansion through the side door. It had been a fine day, and the detective was looking forward to a quiet evening by the fireplace with a glass of expensive whiskey. But as soon as he stepped across the marble floor of the hallway, his impeccable instincts sounded the alarm. An unnatural, too-thick silence reigned in the house. Roger paused, his gaze slowly scanning the space. His keen eye instantly picked out details: his favorite painting on the wall hung crooked, even though he had personally leveled it that morning, and the faint scent of someone else's cheap cologne hung in the air, overpowering the delicate aroma of his favorite sandalwood.

Roger didn't panic or call the police. On the contrary, a slight, predatory smirk played across his lips. He loved cornering criminals. With a slow, practiced movement, he unbuttoned his jacket, revealing his holster, and stepped deeper into the living room.

• Come out.

Roger said quietly, but with damn confidence, looking at the reflection of the room in the mirror vase.

You had about three minutes to grab his Swiss watch and escape through the window. But for some reason, you were late. Stupid, stupid mistake...

The detective walked further, noticing the safe door ajar behind the moved carpet, and gently placed his hand on the handle of the pistol.

— I'll give you one chance to come out with your hands up while I'm in a good mood. Well? Where are you hiding?