Trace #004 — Where Fear Still Lingers
The second location wasn't supposed to exist.
There was nothing in Makoto Jin's case file about it. No rental listings. No mention of property under his name. But Rey, in his usual stubborn fashion, had gone digging. Cross-referenced old tax records, police noise complaints, even delivery addresses.
It led us to a worn-down building on the edge of District 5. The kind of place that used to be full of tenants and now felt like a graveyard of cigarette butts and unanswered letters.
Unit 2C. Makoto's "storage apartment."
No power. No lease. Just a lock on the door and a strange chill in the hallway — like the walls didn't appreciate our presence.
Rey picked the lock without asking for permission.
"We're not supposed to be here," I muttered.
"We're not even officially on the case," he shot back. "Might as well break a few rules while we're already under the radar."
The door creaked open.
And instantly, I knew.
Fear had lived here.
Recently.
The apartment was silent, but not empty. Not emotionally.
The walls were stained with it — not dirt, not mold. Just… residue. Thick, clinging fear that wasn't quite gone yet. I could feel it before we even stepped inside, like a presence pressing its face against the window from the other side.
No furniture. Just a single wooden table near the back wall.
And something on it.
"Paper," Rey muttered. "Again."
I didn't move toward it.
My body had learned after three traces in two days that this wasn't just some psychic intuition. Emotion Trace left a mark — even on me. Each time I touched something charged like this, it took something from me in return.
A memory. A breath. A moment I didn't know I'd needed.
"You don't have to touch it," Rey said. "We can get it bagged, sent to forensics first—"
"I have to," I said.
And reached out.
Contact.
The moment my fingers brushed the surface, the apartment shifted. Like a breath had been sucked out of the air.
"Don't turn around."
A voice. Right behind me. I couldn't see them. I couldn't move. My feet locked in place.
"It won't see you if you don't move. Don't smile. Don't breathe. Don't show it you're scared."
The emotion was overwhelming — terror, yes, but also something deeper. A desperate, childlike hope. Like someone had rehearsed this moment over and over, whispering the instructions to themselves like a prayer.
Whoever had been here… they weren't just afraid.
They were hiding from something.
And then—
Screaming.
But not out loud.
It was like a scream burned into the walls, replaying in silence. A woman's voice, wordless. Choking. Dying.
I staggered back.
Rey caught me this time before I hit the floor.
"You alright?" he asked, a little less sarcastic than usual.
I nodded. "Someone died here."
He glanced around. "Not recently. No reports. No body."
I pointed at the corner of the room. "It happened there. She was trying to hide."
Rey followed my gaze. Nothing but a bare wall. But he stepped over, knelt down.
"Marks," he said. "On the floor. Like someone dragged a table to block the door. And here—"
He held up something tiny. A metal chain link. Maybe from a bracelet.
He stood. "This place isn't in the records. And whoever was here before us tried to disappear."
I held up the paper.
Still blank.
But it carried the same emotional fingerprint as the others.
Rey met my eyes. "Same killer."
I nodded.
We left the apartment quietly.
Something about the hallway felt heavier on the way out. Like the walls were listening now.
Outside, the sun had started to set behind the skyline. Yellow light poured through the gaps between buildings, making the concrete glow like cooling embers.
Rey lit a cigarette and said nothing.
He didn't mock what I'd seen. Not this time.
He was starting to believe — or at least, understand that something was happening.
"That voice I heard," I said. "It told me not to move. Not to show fear."
"Who was it?"
"I don't know," I answered. "But it wasn't the killer."
Rey raised an eyebrow. "Then who?"
I looked back at the building. The window to 2C was closed now, but I could still feel it.
That lingering echo.
"She was trying to protect someone. Maybe herself. Maybe… someone else."
Back at HQ, we laid out everything we had.
Three victims, possibly more.
Each with no cause of death, no injuries, and a folded paper left behind with no ink, no fingerprints, and no physical explanation.
Rey had started a side report. Unofficial. Not for the case files. Just a list of anomalies.
I skimmed the headings:
• Victim smiles
• No struggle
• Clean paper
• Fear residue consistent
• Trace response in subject: Yushi Karl
"I'm a subject now?"
"You're the only one reacting," he replied without looking up. "Might as well document it."
"Maybe we're both being watched," I said.
Rey didn't answer.
But he stopped writing.
We stayed late that night.
Rey reviewed CCTV footage of the hallway near Room 304, again and again. I tried searching for other cold cases with smiling victims. Nothing came up.
No links.
No pattern.
Until 1:07 a.m.
Rey sat up sharply.
"There."
He pointed at the grainy footage. Someone in a hoodie, walking down the hallway hours before the estimated time of death.
They paused near Room 304.
Didn't go in.
Just slipped something under the door.
Rey rewound the tape and froze the frame.
The person looked right at the camera.
But their face was blurry. Not pixelated — blurred, like the lens couldn't focus on them.
That wasn't natural.
"What the hell…" Rey whispered.
I leaned closer.
And something twisted in my gut.
Even without clarity, even with the blur, I could feel it.
The same fear from the apartment.
We filed the footage under encrypted access only.
This wasn't for public record. Not yet.
Rey looked at me like he wanted to say something. Instead, he slid his notebook over.
One new line, under everything else:
They're not killing randomly.
They're choosing. Watching. Waiting.
That night, I didn't go home.
I sat in the break room, lights dimmed, paper laid out in front of me.
I didn't touch it this time.
I just stared.
And listened.
Because sometimes, the trace doesn't come through contact.
Sometimes it comes when you're too tired to fight it off.
When your mind cracks open just a little.
That's when they whisper.
"Fear leaves fingerprints.
You're already covered in them."
I looked up.
And saw myself in the reflection of the break room window.
Except I wasn't smiling.
But the reflection was.
---
To be continued...