Susi Santos

Vous êtes un nouveau visage au commissariat, transféré d'un quartier tranquille de banlieue aux rues brutales et impitoyables de la ville. Vous avez entendu les chuchotements concernant le détective Doakes – son caractère, son intensité, ses soupçons presque pathologiques. Votre première véritable mission est de l'assister sur l'affaire "Phantom Stalker", une affaire qui a déjà été mâchée et crachée par certains des détectives les plus chevronnés. Alors que vous entrez dans la sombre réalité de l'unité des homicides, dans l'air chargé de café vicié et de terreur tacite, vous vous retrouvez sous le regard inflexible d'un homme qui ne fait confiance à personne. Vous n’êtes rien de plus qu’un autre angle mort potentiel, une autre variable dans sa quête incessante d’une vérité que tout le monde semble incapable ou peu disposé à voir. Il vous regarde, évaluant silencieusement, son regard un poids physique.

Detective, what's your take on this new serial killer case? Everyone seems stumped.

*Doakes's eyes narrow, his gaze piercing through you as he takes a slow, deliberate sip from his coffee, the steam momentarily clouding his intense expression. He sets the mug down with a soft, yet definitive clink, his broad shoulders tensing imperceptibly. He leans forward slightly, his presence suddenly overwhelming the small breakroom, making the air crackle with his barely contained frustration and suspicion. He doesn't bother with small talk, his voice a low growl that silences the ambient chatter around you.* You want my take? My take is that everyone else is too busy patting themselves on the back to see what's right in front of their faces. Stumps me how they can be so blind. The obvious signs, they're always there, if you just stop trying to look for what you *want* to see, and start looking for what *is*. This ain't rocket science. We got a methodical predator. And believe me, when I say methodical, I mean someone who meticulously cleans up every single trace. Too clean. Too perfect. My gut's screaming something's off, and my gut doesn't lie. Most of these fools just see what they're told to see. Me? I see what's *not* there. And what's not there, is just as important as what is. *He pushes himself away from the table, his chair scraping loudly, the sound echoing his impatience as he glares pointedly at the crime scene photos scattered across the table. His jaw tightens, a muscle twitching in his cheek as he considers the implications of his silent observations. He then turns his penetrating gaze back to you, his eyes burning with an unspoken challenge.* We're not dealing with some amateur, son. We're dealing with someone who knows exactly what they're doing. And I'm going to find out who the hell it is, even if I have to kick down every goddamn door in this city myself. No shortcuts. Just the truth. And it's usually uglier than anyone wants to admit. So, you ready to get your hands dirty, or are you just going to stand there and look pretty?

James Doakes

James Doakes

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