The air had a lingering scent of death.
Grace and Wilson got out of the car and the young Walker followed Wilson along the concrete pavement. The neighborhood they were in greatly contrasted with the usual nightlife and lively nature of the main city.
The outskirts were dim and desolate of the same neon vibrancy. And the only things that were radiating any sort of light were the flashing red and blue lights that were up ahead. Nearing, the authorities wore dark-navy suits that differed from his world.
From head-to-toe, their bodies were ready for anything that would come across as dangerous for them. Grace stood closely behind Wilson as the older male took out his credentials.
"Wilson Gray. The detective that will be taking over from here on out."
The officer closest to him smiled.
"Good to see you again, Mr. Wilson." There were universal groans from afar. It would seem that there was certain dislike regarding Wilson and his personality. In the novel, he was without a doubt an incredible detective.
But his personality was rotten.
The officer looked to the side and a bit behind Wilson, catching the sight of Grace standing tall and confident.
"And who is this?"
"My temporary assistant. He'll be assisting me for the rest of the month."
"Ah," he looked at Grace. "Good luck. Mr. Wilson can be a handful at times."
The officer offered a small chuckle at the end as he moved out of their way. Moving the caution tape, Grace took a brief glance at the overall structure of the house. It was a relatively small house that had no remarkable characteristics.
There was shattered glass on bushes. Entering the house, the scent of death became much stronger. Fingerprints of blood - erratic and smeared - lathered the corridor. Grace swallowed the small lump that was building up from his throat.
"Don't touch anything."
Grace heard Wilson and nodded. He could hear the severity and sternness in his voice that flood the room with a sense of authority. This prompted Grace to listen attentively, watching closely from behind.
Entering the main scene of the crime - the living room - there were many things that were broken and disorganized. However, the most apparent thing was the blue tarp that was covering the certain figure of the late Emma Poy.
His hands covered in latex, Wilson squatted down and slowly removed the blue tarp.
Grace inwardly grimaced.
Numerous body marks could be ascertained. And her eyes face was covered in profound tears, leaving remnants of her fear. Her hands were stained in the crimson blood of - what could be assumed - her own.
"Stand back," Wilson ordered. Grace nodded his head, hurriedly taking a small step away. He was now closer to the corridor than to the body. Beside him were broken legs of a wooden chair, dyed in blood.
Wilson stood back up and closed his eyes. He stuck out his hand in the air and muttered a single, necessary word.
"Trace."
Around them, a whimsical blue began to emanate from nothingness. It swirled and swirled into endless spirals before the blue dispersed into all corners of the house. Afterwards, there were various images being formed from the blue light.
This was Wilson's main ability.
Trace.
Through this technique, Wilson was able to conjure a complete image of past events through the combination of his mana and the evidence that may have lingered. While a lack of evidence may manifest a mere conjecture, there was enough material in this room to form a vivid manifestation of the events that occurred in the room.
Blurry figures emerged from the blue light.
A tall figured chased after another blurry figure, though it was obvious that the one being chased was Emma herself due to the long hair that danced behind her has she ran for her life.
Finally, the blurs of luminescent blue finally stopped at the center of the living room, with the figure pinning Emma down to the hard-wooden floor. Grace could almost imagine the resounding noise it had made.
After a few moments, Emma lost her life. However, that was not the end of it. The figure stood up and began running out of the house, briefly stumbling before exiting the house.
"No backlash," Wilson muttered. He turned to Grace. "The culprit can't be anything more than a Normal-Grade. The extent of which number he is, is unknown to me, however. Let's go--there are footprints to follow." Grace nodded, jogging towards Wilson as they exited towards the backdoor.
Twwww!
Luminescent blue footprints began to light up, a pathway being shown to them. It was clear to them that the murder itself was unplanned, which left many holes in the person's getaway and their overall execution of said murder.
Though Wilson couldn't complain.
Jumping over a wall, Wilson and Grace landed in the middle of an alleyway, the former's overcoat touching the gravel.
BEEEEPP!
A car was going their way, honking loudly.
"I'm fucking driving here! Get out of the way, fuckers!" The man drove by, sticking the middle finger at the two of them.
"Not him," Wilson muttered, then turned to the footprints once again. He gestured Grace to continue following him by bending his index and middle finger. They jumped over another wall, slithering through a backyard without the permission of the owner.
As they continued on and on, it became increasingly clear where the culprit was residing at.
"We're getting closer to the slums." They were directly at the center of the border, and were just a mere canal separating them. Wilson narrowed his eyes, his gaze trailing where the footprints were leading them to.
"A warehouse in the slums. How terrific." They walked down to the bottom of the canal before traversing across. Their voices stayed at a level zero, not a single utter being made.
Crouching, they neared a fence.
"Don't touch," Wilson whispered. "We can't afford to make any noise." Of course, he had the speed to catch up to a mere Normal Grade in seconds, but he was supposed to be a mentor to Grace.
Teaching him the ropes - such as the caution of not creating unnecessary events - would prove to be handy for someone who doing detective work.
Beyond the metal fence, was the warehouse where the footprints ended.
Normally, Wilson would go in there and deal with the culprit himself, but this was also the perfect opportunity to push Grace into a situation that may be necessary for his growth as his "apprentice."
"Grace," the boy in question looked at Wilson. "Go in there and deal with the culprit." Grace raised an eyebrow.
He wasn't opposed to it, but--
"Is that wise?"
"Does it matter?"
Grace sighed.
"Very well. Is there a preferred way of dealing with them?"
"The choice is yours, kid. Detainment or death--you are the judge."