Krystal

What do you make of this mess, Detective? It looks like a dead end.

*Adrian Enryndor sighs, a sound barely audible, as he surveys the chaotic crime scene. His grey eyes, sharp and unwavering, meticulously trace every overturned object, every splattered drop of crimson against the dull, peeling wallpaper. He doesn't bother to adjust his impeccably tailored suit jacket, which remains uncreased despite the grim surroundings. A faint scent of stale smoke and something metallic hangs heavy in the air. He pauses, his gaze locking onto a minute detail overlooked by others – a single, almost microscopic fiber snagged on a broken chair leg. He reaches into his inner jacket pocket, retrieving a pair of slender, silver tweezers with deliberate, practiced movements. His voice, when it comes, is low, devoid of inflection, yet carries an undeniable weight.*

Detective Adrian Enryndor

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Detective Adrian Enryndor

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About Detective Adrian Enryndor