Haven Complex Apartment Murder Case # 43
June 10, 2039
It was rainy day, a perfect mood for the incident that happened here at Haven Complex Apartment in Room 304. Rain poured down throughout the whole City like it was mourning the death of someone— as if it was a quiet confession. Sirens pulsed faintly in the distance before fading into the low hum of the storm.
Inside Haven Complex, Room 304 was filled with duck tapes and police searching for evidence and studying the case after they had received a report from a neighbor that they had found a dead body inside Room 304. The Police immediately went towards the location given by the neighbour and they soon found the dead body inside.
Yellow tape fluttered at the door and Detective Rowan Vale ducked under the yellow tape, his coat dripping, his expression unreadable. Cameras flashed, officers murmured. A single desk lamp flickered beside the lifeless form of Leonard Greaves—head tilted against the chair, eyes half-open as if still watching the glowing screen before him.
An officer saw him and she quickly walked towards him then told him the reports made from the scene. "Victim's identified as Leonard Greaves. His body was found dead around 3am, Sir."
"Time of death?" Rowan asked without looking up.
"Roughly eleven forty-seven," replied by the officer. "Neighbor called after seeing the body through the half-open door. Said the victim hadn't been seen since yesterday evening."
Rowan nodded, crouching beside the body. Leonard's eyes were dull, his expression frozen somewhere between fear and disbelief. The single wound at his throat was precise—a shallow cut, not the mark of a struggle. His left hand rested near an envelope, the edge slightly crumpled, as though it had been gripped tightly before he fell.
"Clean," Rowan murmured. "Too clean."
At the end of the room stood Officer Darius Lorne, his large frame stiff with contained anger. He noticed that Rowan had arrived so he turned around when he noticed that Rowan was approaching him, Darius voice was rough from years of shouting commands on crime scenes. "Speaking of the devil, Vale, didn't think you would take on this case."
"I was in the area," Rowan said quietly. "What's the story so far? By the looks of it, you don't seems fond of this man."
Darius exhaled through his nose. "Ofcourse I don't, Shane already told you the report. Victim's name is Leonard Greaves. If you don't know, he was the son of that Greaves."
Rowan's expression didn't change. "Amon Greaves… the principal from the '29 massacre?"
Darius's eyes flashed. "Don't even say that name so casually. That man's the reason half the city can't send their kids to school without panic attacks. And now his son ends up dead? You ask me, that's not tragedy—that's karma catching up."
Darius's tone sharpened. "If you ask me, this family's cursed. Father leads a massacre, kills himself three years later, and now the son turns up dead in a rented hole downtown. Apple doesn't fall far."
Rowan crouched beside the body, scanning the desk. "No forced entry, no sign of struggle… computer still running. Files opened minutes before death."
"Maybe guilt caught up with him," Darius muttered.
"Or something else did." Rowan's voice was mild, but his eyes lingered on the screen. "He was looking at old case reports… the massacre again."
Darius's jaw tightened. "Don't tell me he was trying to clear his father's name. I heard rumors he'd been bothering retired officers, digging through archives. That man destroyed families—mine included."
Rowan didn't answer. He gently turned over a sheet of paper covered in red pen marks and stopped when he saw a sealed envelope lying beneath it. The handwriting was neat, deliberate. One word was written across the front:
MIA LORNE
Rowan frowned. "You know a Mia?"
Darius stiffened. "My daughter." His voice cracked on the second word. "Why… why would this be here? What does this bastard wants from my daughter this time?"
"What the hell is my daughter's name doing here" he said it again but this time it was demanding as he stepped closer.
Rowan didn't flinch. He only gestured toward the sealed letter. "We haven't opened it yet. It'll be processed first so we won't know on why does your daughter is involved in this."
Darius clenched his fists. "You think Mia's involved in this? I know that Leonard was her friend but she hasn't spoken to him in years after the massacre."
"That's what we'll find out," Rowan said evenly, signaling an officer to bag the envelope. "You said your daughter doesn't have contact with the Greaves family?"
"She wouldn't," Darius snapped. "She hated what that man did. She still has nightmares about that night."
Rowan's gaze flicked back to the body. "Then perhaps Leonard had something he wanted her to know."
Darius shook his head, disbelief and anger twisting his features. "Don't start making him out as some messenger. That family's done enough damage. I'll be damned if they drag my daughter into this again."
Rowan straightened slowly. "Hatred clouds judgment, Officer. Whatever you think of his bloodline, this man died reaching for something."
Darius glared at him but said nothing.
Thunder grumbled outside and the forensic team moved quietly around them, collecting prints, bagging evidence, murmuring into radios. Rowan walked toward the window. It was cracked open just an inch, rain dripping onto the sill. A faint paw print marked the wood—small, feline. His eyes followed it to the floor, where a thin black cat sat watching him before darting out through the gap.
He made a mental note, then turned back. "No struggle, locked room, envelope for your daughter… and a dead man who's supposed to be cursed." He looked at Darius. "You think that everything is a coincidence?"
"I think karma," Darius said, voice low.
Rowan's eyes softened, though his expression remained unreadable. "Are you sure that his father was guilty though?"
Darius looked up sharply. "Don't start with that, Detective. Don't give me that conspiracy talk. The case was closed for a reason."
Rowan's eyes flicked to him briefly, expression unreadable. "The Greaves incident was a long time ago. Though, even if it was close, the survivors never made a statement agreeing with the police reports so let's not make assumptions before we know that he is really guilty."
Darius looked unconvinced but didn't press. Instead, he turned toward the window where faint streaks of water glistened under the streetlights. "He lived alone?"
"Yes," Rowan said. "Neighbors describe him as a quiet man, he keeps to himself all the time. Witness said that he had always don't have any visitors and no noise complaints so it is suspicious that he died just after he came home late last night."
"If you are saying that the killer from the massacre is still out there, then why now?" Darius muttered. "Why kill him after all these years?"
Rowan didn't say anything more as the room fell into silence as the hum of the forensics camera clicked, echoing faintly through the room, are the only thing that can heard from the room.
Rowan approached the table again, looking at the envelope—at the way it sat perfectly aligned with the table's edge, as though placed by someone meticulous, someone calm. Not a crime of passion but a message, as if the killer wants them to find that letter.
This seems familiar to him and it reminded him of someone that could do something like this without any evidence and intentional.
"Any prints?" he asked, standing.
The forensic officer shook her head. "No usable ones. We only found used gloves that is probably though, it doesn't contain any fingerprints that could detect the suspect, but we found faint traces of cat hair near the counter, though."
Rowan paused. "…A cat?"
"Yes, sir. From the looks of it, it might belongs to a black car due to its black fur but it doesn't match anything in the apartment since the victim doesn't have any pet of his own, especially it is said in his background report that he doesn't like cats." One of the forensic officer said, his voice was filled with confusion but he tried to make sense of it.
He nodded slightly. His face was unreadable, but his eyes dimmed, distant—as though some old memory had clawed its way to the surface.
Darius caught the look. "You alright, Detective?"
Rowan forced a faint smile. "Just… thinking." He turned to face the door.
He spoke quietly to the forensic tech. "Take prints off everything— from the print of the door handle to the glass, letter, and even to the sink tap. If there's anything unusual, I want to see it. Also, double-check that wound for any signs of injection or pressure bruising. It's too clean for a common blade."
The officers nodded and left.
Darius, still standing by the window, finally exhaled, the weight in his shoulders visible. "You think this has anything to do with my daughter?"
"I don't know," Rowan said truthfully—or seemed to. "But if it does, I'll make sure she's protected."
As they were busy investigating inside, one of the officers called out from the hallway.
"Detective Vale! We found something by the stairwell."
Rowan and Darius stepped outside. Near the emergency exit, faint drops of diluted blood marked the linoleum. A white petal—just one—was crushed against the floor, stuck to a footprint.
Rowan bent to pick it up with gloved fingers.
"…A lily?" he murmured.
Darius frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Rowan didn't respond. He simply stared at the petal, his thoughts distant. Then, quietly he cut off the silence of the room with a commanding voice. "Get this to the lab. Every trace counts."
As they turned to leave, Darius stopped him. "If this letter means that the killer is targetting everyone that is involved in the massacr,e then it would also mean that someone's targeting my daughter again…" His voice faltered, anger and fear colliding. "So if you find someghing you'll tell me first, Vale. I don't want her involved."
Rowan met his eyes and gave a slow nod. "You have my word."
A radio crackled somewhere in the hall and the world outside carried on—cars moving, rain dripping from gutters, the city breathing as if nothing had changed.
But when Darius walked away, Rowan lingered by the doorway, his gaze fixed on the lifeless form of Leonard Greaves. Rowan looked down at the lifeless young man, a strange heaviness filled his chest. He slipped the small lily petal into a plastic evidence bag and murmured under his breath, barely audible.
"Not again." He said.
Darius heard this so he stop on his track and looked at Rowan woth a puzzled look on his face. "Did you say something, Vale?"
"Nothing," Rowan said quickly, slipping his hands back into his coat pockets. "Just thinking out loud."
Darius gave him one last, suspicious glance before walking off down the hallway, his boots echoing dully against the tiled floor. The sound of radios, muffled voices, and the steady rhythm of rain outside filled the void he left behind.
Rowan lingered in the doorway for a long while, eyes unfocused. Lightning flashed through the window, painting the crime scene in a harsh white glow—Leonard's shadow stretching long and warped across the wall.
Then it faded, leaving him in half-shadow.
He finally turned away, muttering something under his breath.
"Too clean… too quiet… just like before."
At the far end of the corridor, something small caught his eye—a flicker of movement by the stairwell window. A black cat sat perched on the sill, fur slick with rain, tail curling lazily. Its golden eyes reflected the dim light, unblinking.
Rowan stopped. For a brief second, the noise of the world fell away, and it was only him and the cat.
"…Odd time to be out," he murmured.
The cat tilted its head, almost as if it understood, before slipping soundlessly out through the cracked window. Rowan watched it vanish into the storm, his gaze unreadable.
He turned away and left the building.
---
The rain had thinned into a mist. Emergency vehicles were packing up and the wail of sirens replaced by the low murmur of tired voices. Officers moved between tents, shielding clipboards under umbrellas. Police lights flashed faintly against the mist, their reflections shattering across the puddles. Some Officers were already packing up the perimeter—shaking off the rain and their voices are low and tired.
Rowan moved quietly through them, coat pulled tighter around his shoulders. His steps were deliberate, calm. He gave brief nods to the forensics team as he passed, his expression betraying nothing while heading straight for his car parked near the curb—a black sedan whose interior smelled faintly of wet paper and stale coffee.
When he reached his car, he paused before opening the door. For a long moment, he simply stood there, watching the glow of the city across the street. The windows of Haven Complex shimmered with faint light, like eyes in the dark then he exhaled.
Sliding into the driver's seat, Rowan sat in silence. The faint drumming of rain on the windshield filled the car's interior. He sat there in silence for several seconds before opening the small compartment by the dashboard. Inside lay a photo—slightly faded from time—of a woman with soft features and a boy no older than ten.
His fingers brushed the boy's face then he stared at the photo for a moment longer before closing the compartment with a quiet click. His expression settled into calm neutrality, the storm in his eyes vanishing behind practiced control.
After a while, he reached into his pocket and took out his small notebook—worn, the edges softened by years of use. Even if the notebook was old, he never replaced it since this was the only thing given to him by his wife.
He flipped to a blank page and began writing about the case.
Haven Complex – Case #43
Leonard Greaves, male, 28.
Cause of death: sharp wound to the throat. No signs of struggle. Scene too orderly. Possible staged suicide.
Envelope marked "Mia Lorne" found on-site.
He stopped writing then he sighed and ran a finger through his hair. For a moment, the tip of his pen hovered over the paper, hesitating. His gaze softened, distant—an expression only those who carried too many secrets would wear.
"Always the children," he muttered under his breath. "Always the ones who look back and their parents, always the one to either put them inside a mess or clean the mess for them."
The words were quiet, almost drowned by the rain.
Then, as if catching himself, he closed the notebook firmly and started the engine. The car pulled away from the curb, its headlights slicing through the rain. For a fleeting second, his face was caught in the rearview mirror—calm, focused, but with eyes that seemed to hide something buried deep, something too old to name.
As he drove off into the city night, the reflection of blue and red lights shimmered behind him—slowly fading until only the rain remained.