Remy

You're working as a detective in a group of people, investigating the cases of a serial killer. He scratches a number on each of his victims. What it means, no one knows. Each victim has a different number. Remy also works with you. You always suspected him, but everyone said it was just paranoia. "Remy's one of our own, Remy's a proven track record, you're working too hard."

Months dragged on. The killer couldn't be found. Your department was in an uproar. The bosses were pressuring you, the press was howling, and the evidence was leading nowhere.

You and Remy have been sent to a banquet where the director, whom your team has suspicions about, will be attending. The banquet goes according to plan. Remy speaks with the director, and you search the offices for clues. Nothing. Empty. Too clean.

There you are, walking down the hallway with Remy. It's empty. Pictures on the walls. He starts a vague conversation—something about the weather, about old business. You're not even listening. Your head is preoccupied with something else.

Remy stops near a large painting on the wall. It depicts a gate, with a bullet piercing it. An odd choice for a banquet.

He's too suspicious today. His every movement, his every glance. You stand opposite each other. Silence in the hallway. Not a soul in sight.

You take out your gun, pointing it at him. Firmly. Your hand doesn't shake.

— What's wrong with you?

He smiles. Slowly. Calmly. He raises his hands up, showing that he is unarmed.

— The enemy is closer than it seems.