The office smelled of coffee, stale paper, and ambition. The kind of smell that burned your lungs if you breathed too deeply but somehow kept you awake long enough to finish the impossible.
Eliana was buried under a pile of case files, her laptop screen open to a stack of murder reports. Every death weighed on her. Every pattern teased her, taunting her with questions she couldn't answer.
And now, as if the universe had decided to add insult to injury, a new figure appeared.
"Ah, Ms. Vale," a smooth voice said from behind her desk.
Eliana looked up, frowning. Her breath hitched slightly. The man in the tailored suit, dark hair falling perfectly across his forehead, and those impossible eyes—they were him. The man from the bar. The one who had vanished without a trace after that single, impossible moment.
"Do I know you?" she asked cautiously, forcing her expression neutral, though her heart betrayed her curiosity.
He smiled faintly, just enough to make her pulse quicken. "Not yet. I'm Asher Whitlock. A friend of Caldwell's."
Her brow furrowed. "My boss? Caldwell didn't mention anyone coming in today."
"Asher's been advising on high-profile cases," Caldwell said from across the room, leaning against the edge of his desk. "I thought it would be helpful for him to assist on the Raventport investigation. He's… insightful."
Eliana's gaze flicked to Asher. She forced herself to remain calm. Ordinary, she told herself. He has to be ordinary. But the pull in her chest reminded her he wasn't. That night at the bar had awakened something she didn't understand—and she wasn't ready to face it again.
Asher stepped closer, voice low, deliberate. "Ms. Vale, I've heard you've been working on the preliminary investigation. Your notes… are impressive."
She felt that same strange heat she had felt in the bar—unease, curiosity, a pull she didn't want to acknowledge. "Thanks," she said cautiously. "It's just… patterns and anomalies. There's no real explanation yet."
He tilted his head, studying her as though he could read her thoughts. "Patterns, yes. But some patterns have deeper causes. Sometimes, the visible is only a fraction of the truth. That's what interests me."
Her pulse quickened. She kept her voice steady. "So… you're here for the same reason I am?"
"As much as you are," he said, faintly amused. "Though I suspect you've already noticed things others wouldn't. Tell me, have you ever seen a death and felt… wrongness? Not in evidence, not in the crime itself, but in the person?"
Eliana froze. The words were the same as those she had been thinking all week. And now, hearing him say them, she understood—he knew more than he should. "Yes," she whispered. "Exactly that. Like… something took more than their life. Something intangible."
Asher's lips curved into a small, knowing smile. "Then you understand why I'm here. And why I need someone who can see more than the obvious."
Her fingers tightened around a pen. She wanted to ask him—demand an explanation—but she didn't. Not yet. Instead, she told herself: He's a man in my office. That's all he is.
He straightened, glancing briefly at Caldwell. "I'll be observing the investigation, providing insights where needed. Ms. Vale, I hope we can work together."
She studied him, skepticism warring with that strange fascination. "Fine. But don't underestimate me. I can handle myself."
He smiled faintly, a corner of his mouth lifting just enough to make it dangerous. "I wouldn't dream of it."
———
The first week was subtle. He didn't intrude unless necessary, his insights precise, his presence almost magnetic. He asked questions no one else thought to ask, noticed details she had overlooked, and when he spoke, the room seemed to lean in.
Eliana couldn't shake the memory of that night—the bar, the pull, the intensity in his gaze. And now, seeing him every day, she felt the same unease, the same heat beneath her skin.
One evening, after everyone else had left, she found him leaning against the edge of her desk. His gaze was distant, studying the files she had spread across her workspace.
"You've been at this long," he said quietly. "Do you ever sleep?"
She smirked, though tension lingered in her chest. "Sleep is overrated. Besides, someone has to see what everyone else misses."
He didn't smile. He didn't need to. "I can help," he said. "But if you want to solve this case… you need to trust your instincts."
Her fingers hovered over the papers, suddenly aware of his proximity, of the way he seemed to know more than he should, of the way his presence made the air heavier. "I… I trust myself," she said carefully.
"Good," he murmured, eyes darkening in the dim light. "Because the truth will not wait for hesitation."
And as she watched him leave for the night, a small, unsettling thought settled into her chest:
He is the man from that night. And he is not ordinary.