GLASS BALL EYES

Case File: Jeremy Johnson

Age: 23

Occupation: Delivery Boy (Pizza)

Height: 5'8"

Jeremy Johnson, a former student of St. Petersburg, had once been full of promise. But life didn't follow the path he expected. Dropping out, he took on any job he could find, from factory work to pizza delivery in Los Angeles.

Five months ago, his body was found on a hillside near the outskirts of Beverly Hills. Unconscious, but eerily untouched. His eyes had been removed with surgical precision-no blood, no wounds, no struggle.

The autopsy revealed an overdose of a powerful anesthetic, administered expertly. No signs of a fight, no defensive wounds, and no traceable evidence left behind. He had been silenced and stripped of his sight, left as a puzzle for anyone to solve.

Case File: Noah Dawson

Age: 35

Occupation: Computer Engineer

Height: 5'7"

Noah Dawson was living a stable life in Shwat City, Los Angeles. A kind man with a promising career and a girlfriend who loved him. But that life came to a brutal end five months ago.

His body was discovered on an isolated street in Shwat City, stabbed five times with precision. He bled out alone, his life slipping away with each deliberate wound.

But the most chilling detail? His eyes were gone-removed with the same meticulous skill as Jeremy Johnson's. No fingerprints, no witnesses. The scene was sterile, as if the killer had vanished into thin air, leaving only a hollowed corpse behind.

_____

I was absorbed in my thoughts as I stared at the case files. The two deaths—Jeremy and Noah—had too many similarities, too much overlap. My mind couldn't shake the image of Cassandra from my thoughts. She was always there, lingering in the background like a shadow.

"Sir, good morning," Sasha's voice broke through my haze.

I barely acknowledged her, giving a simple nod. The constant swirl of the case had left me with a gnawing sense of nausea. The more I thought about it, the more questions piled up. None of them had answers.

Two days. And still, nothing.

No confession.

No new leads. No tangible evidence.

Interrogating Cassandra was like trying to have a conversation with a mirror—each question only reflected my own frustration, each word bouncing back with an air of mockery.

Sasha was mumbling something about the case. Her theories were as scattered as usual, but they didn't capture my attention. I needed clarity, not distractions. I reached for my cigarette pack, lighting one, letting the smoke fill my lungs, a temporary escape from the suffocating confusion.

"Do we have a search warrant?" I asked, my voice heavy with exhaustion.

"No search warrant," Sasha replied flatly.

The words landed like a punch. How was that possible? We had enough evidence to charge her—solid, undeniable proof. And still, no search warrant? It didn't make sense. Someone powerful was protecting Cassandra, pulling strings from the shadows. But who?

I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my temples, trying to force the frustration from my mind. The answer was right there, just out of reach. I could feel it. But without the tools to act, I was stuck. I needed to get closer to Cassandra. Find a way in.

Sam sat across from me, his usual cheerful demeanor slightly dulled by exhaustion. He looked like a man who hadn't slept in his own bed for days.

"Anne's been upset with me," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't eat the tiffin she meticulously prepared for me. She put so much effort into it, and I just... forgot."

I raised an eyebrow. "She kicked you out over that?"

"Not just that," he sighed. "She hates my work schedule. I've been buried in this nerve-racking case, trying to crack it without your help. And trust me, it's been a pain in the ass."

I leaned back, crossing my arms. "So, where have you been sleeping?"

"Car. Sometimes a park bench," Sam said with a half-hearted chuckle. "It's not exactly five-star, but it gets the job done."

Sasha slid a report across the table, the sudden movement pulling my focus back to the case. It was a list of neighbors surrounding Cassandra's house. Most of them had good things to say—she was friendly, easy to talk to, a pleasant presence in the neighborhood.

"Except for one," Sasha added, her voice laced with interest.

"Who?" I asked, my curiosity piqued.

"An old woman," Sasha replied. "About sixty-one. She says Cassandra was... strange. And ummm [hesitation] a whore."

"Strange and a whore?" I echoed, my tone laced with disbelief. "What exactly did she mean by that?"

Sasha shrugged. "The woman didn't give much detail. She was pretty reluctant to talk at first, but eventually, she mentioned that Cassandra had visitors at odd hours. She seemed... guarded about it, but she made it sound like Cassandra wasn't exactly who she appeared to be."

I took a slow drag, letting the smoke fill my lungs before exhaling it into the stagnant air of the room. The weight of the case pressed down, but there was something about this lead that sparked a flicker of hope, even if it was small.

Sasha cleared her throat again, rubbing at her eyes like she hadn't slept in days. "You know," she said slowly, "if she's right, that means we've been missing something. There's a pattern, and it's hidden in plain sight. New boys, new faces every night."

"Yeah," I muttered, leaning back in my chair, watching the embers of the cigarette burn down. "But there's always a catch. There always is. No one's this clean."

Samuel let out a soft chuckle from the corner of the room. He'd been quiet up until now, but I could tell his wheels were turning. "The old woman doesn't sound like the reliable type, though. Are we really trusting her word?"

Sasha shot him a sharp look. "We're trusting what she knows, not her word. If she's seen something, it's worth checking out."

I stood up, the chair scraping against the floor. I could feel the pull of the road, the distance between us and the answer growing shorter with every mile. "Alright," I said, picking up my jacket, "Let's head to Beverly Hills. If there's a lead, we find it. We'll know soon enough if we're chasing ghosts or something real."

I glanced at Sasha, her expression a little more guarded now. "Alright then, let's see where this takes us. Beverly Hills might hold the answers we need. Let's head out."

I grabbed my keys and turned to Samuel, who was still contemplating the conversation. "You coming, or are you staying here to figure out if the old woman's a liar?"

He met my gaze, the glint of determination in his eyes. "I'm with you. I don't trust it either, but we'll know more once we get there."

The weight of the night felt heavy as we made our way to the door. I didn't know what we'd find in Beverly Hills, but I had the nagging feeling that we were about to uncover something we weren't ready for.

"I've solved my recent case, and I don't have much else on my plate," Samuel said, leaning back in his chair. "Getting a fresh rich air of Beverly Hills sounds great."

I raised an eyebrow, studying him for a moment. "So, you're coming then?"

Samuel met my gaze, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You didn't think I'd let you go alone, did you? Besides, I could use a change of scenery. Beverly Hills… always a good place to find answers, or distractions."

Sasha shook her head, a wry smile forming on her face. "Distractions, huh? I'm sure you'll find plenty of those."

Samuel shrugged casually. "What can I say? It's Beverly Hills. You never know what you might stumble upon."

I turned toward the door, the weight of the case still pressing on my mind. "Well, if we're going, let's get moving. We don't have all night."

Samuel gave a quick nod, rising from his seat. "Lead the way, Hoffman. I'm all in."