Interlude
The detective stood in the penthouse, the air thick with the metallic scent of death. She lay across the bed, almost naked, her body arranged like a doll on display. This was different. He’d seen countless murders—crimes of passion that left behind chaos and blood. But this was something else. Cruelty, refined into an art form. The killing wasn’t the end, but part of a process. Part of the entertainment.
Hair spilled over the white linens, an elegant, dark contrast. The bruises, however, were not elegant. Deep red and purple, they covered her body. These weren’t the marks of a wild struggle. Someone had taken their time, working methodically. His gaze moved from her wrists—where bruises curved like cuffs—to the faint outline on her neck. It was where she finally panicked, where the game had turned fatal.
One of the specialists, a woman with a clinical voice, spoke quietly. “She was made to clean herself. Or someone cleaned her.” Soap. Antiseptic. Erasure, not just evidence removal.
A wave of nausea hit him. This wasn't cruelty from rage or pleasure; it was a cold, calculated decision. He inhaled slowly, the air still heavy with the scent of chemicals. “Her phone?”
“Gone.”
The penthouse was officially registered to AradPharma. He watched as a Justice Ministry officer paced, a phone clutched in his hand, waiting.
“Can we move the body? Begin the autopsy?”
The officer shook his head, a tense line forming between his brows. “Still waiting for clearance from Ettela’at.”
The Intelligence Ministry. Not the Judiciary. Farhad knew that when AradPharma was involved, even the chief investigator held no true authority. The company was too big to touch, too tangled with the regime. An entire forensic team stood idle, watching a body decompose slightly, waiting for the intelligence service’s signal.
Then he saw it. A business card left deliberately on the nightstand: Armita Modeling Agency. Gilt lettering caught the forensic lights. It wasn’t tucked away; it was placed where it would be found. Whether by accident or design, it was the only clear identifier they had.
Then, without warning, the officer’s phone buzzed. He listened, then gave a single nod.
“You can proceed.”
A quiet green light. The bureaucratic obstacle was cleared. But the investigation had only just begun. The murderer had left a breadcrumb, a chilling display. Whoever they were, they were confident. Confident enough to turn a crime scene into an exhibition.
