The clock ticked past midnight in Detective Lee's private basement. The soft hum of computers filled the air, their screens glowing with maps, files, and coded reports. Red strings connected photos across a large evidence board: crime scenes, victims, timelines.
Lee stared at Marcus Drell's file, his sharp eyes unblinking. Ask your family's company. They're in deeper than you think.
The words gnawed at him.
Ray leaned against the railing, arms crossed. "Boss, you really think Milton Company has dirt under its nails? It's… your father's empire."
Lee's jaw tightened. "Empires are built on blood, Ray. The question is: whose blood?"
He typed a command into his system, pulling up a string of unsolved murders from the past decade. The screen filled with images—each victim linked to the corporate underworld. Accountants. Brokers. A whistleblower. A club owner.
"Every one of them connected," Lee muttered. "Each death staged differently, but the timing… the pattern's there."
Ray squinted. "Patterns?"
Lee pointed to the screen. "Every death occurred three months after an internal Milton deal closed. Small subsidiaries, offshore accounts. The victims? People who knew too much or threatened exposure."
Ray whistled. "That's not coincidence. That's a clean-up operation."
Lee's gaze hardened. "And Marcus… he's not smart enough to plan it. He's a pawn. Which means someone else—someone bigger—is pulling the strings."
---
The next morning, a confidential envelope was slipped under Lee's study door. No return address. Just his name written in neat, sharp handwriting.
Inside was a single sheet of paper with typed words:
"The next death will be closer to home. Look inside your own company. Look for the shadow."
Attached was a photo: a Milton executive shaking hands with a man whose face was blurred.
Lee studied the photo, his pulse steady but his mind racing.
Patrick Pierce.
The ambitious executive he clashed with just days ago was front and center, smiling in that smug way he always did. But the man he was shaking hands with—that blur—it reeked of intentional tampering. Whoever sent this wanted Lee to know Pierce wasn't acting alone.
Ray frowned over his shoulder. "Boss… someone's feeding us. But why?"
Lee tucked the paper into his coat pocket. "Whistleblowers don't live long. Whoever this is, they're desperate."
---
Later that night, Lee slipped into the neon-lit streets of the city, blending into the crowd. His destination: a run-down bar frequented by ex-employees of Milton Company. People discarded after knowing too much.
He slid into a booth across from a nervous man in his late forties—thin, jittery, clutching his glass like it was a lifeline.
"You used to work for Milton's finance branch," Lee said coldly. "What do you know about the deaths?"
The man's eyes darted around. "They… they weren't random. The company has… has a cleaner. Someone who makes problems disappear." His voice trembled. "The last one—he didn't even know he was on the list. Just… gone."
Lee leaned closer. "Names. Who gave the orders?"
The man swallowed hard. "Not on record. Never on record. But the pattern… every death trails back to someone high. Higher than Pierce. He's ambitious, but he's not the puppeteer. There's another hand… always another hand."
Before Lee could press further, the man stiffened, eyes wide. A red dot glowed faintly across his chest.
"Down!" Lee barked.
The glass shattered as a bullet tore through the bar window. Chaos erupted. Lee flipped the table, dragging the man behind cover while Ray returned fire from the entrance. Screams filled the bar as patrons fled into the street.
The man was shaking violently, clutching his arm where glass had cut deep. "I told you… they're always watching. You can't stop it."
Lee's eyes narrowed, scanning the rooftops outside. Whoever was behind this had just confirmed it—Milton Company's secrets were guarded by killers, and someone very high up was orchestrating it all.
Ray crouched beside him, out of breath. "Boss… you realize this means war, right?"
Lee's lips curved into the faintest, coldest smirk. "Then we'll bring it to their doorstep."
The marble lobby of Milton Company gleamed like a palace, polished floors reflecting the towering chandeliers. Emily sat stiffly in the waiting area, her résumé folder clutched like a lifeline. Her heart thumped, not from the interview alone, but from the figure she'd just seen stride across the lobby.
Detective Lee.
Except this wasn't the brooding stranger from the club. This was a man in a sleek black suit, his sharp features framed by authority. Employees straightened as he passed, whispering like nervous schoolchildren.
Emily blinked twice. No way. That can't be him… The same cold, arrogant man from that night?
But it was.
"Ugh," she muttered, glaring at his retreating figure. "Why do the best-looking ones always have the worst personalities?"
The lady sitting beside her gave her a puzzled look. Emily coughed, embarrassed, and buried her face in her résumé.
---
Upstairs, Lee shut the office door behind him, jaw tight. Of all the people in the city, she had to walk into Milton.
Ray raised an eyebrow from his seat by the desk. "You look like you saw a ghost."
Lee shot him a look. "Worse. I saw trouble."
Ray smirked knowingly. "Ah. The girl from the club. The one who yelled at you."
Lee didn't answer. He was too busy suppressing the strange churn in his chest.
---
The office doors suddenly flew open.
"Darling!"
Lee's fiancée swept in, a cloud of perfume and pastel pink silk. Her heels clacked across the floor as if announcing her presence to the entire building. She spread her arms dramatically. "Oh, I missed you! You've been working too hard, I can see it in your skin! Look at those poor tired eyes!"
Ray nearly fell out of his chair laughing.
Lee didn't even look up from his papers. "You shouldn't be here."
She giggled, sitting herself right on the corner of his desk. "Oh, nonsense. This office will be mine too one day. We should go for lunch, hm? Sushi? Or steak? No, no, Italian. You love Italian."
"I don't," Lee said coldly, flipping a file open.
She winked as if he'd just confessed affection. "Still playing hard to get. You're adorable when you're cold."
Ray choked on a laugh, covering it with a fake cough.
Lee finally raised his eyes, his tone sharp as a blade. "Leave. Now."
Most people would have run. But not her. She only leaned closer, grinning like a cat. "Oh, darling. You'll warm up to me eventually."
Lee exhaled slowly, muttering under his breath, "Or freeze."
---
Downstairs, Emily's name was called. She stood, her knees trembling, and followed the assistant to the elevator.
The higher she went, the harder her heart thumped. She thought about the man she'd just seen—the one who had abandoned her, the one she'd sworn never to see again.
And now, he was here. Not just "Detective Lee," but Milton Company Lee.
She clenched her résumé tighter. "Unbelievable. The universe really hates me."
---
That evening, back in the secret basement of his mansion, Lee stood before his glowing evidence board. The strings and notes stretched like veins across the wall, every new clue pulling the pattern tighter.
Ray dropped a fresh envelope onto the desk. "Boss. Another message."
Lee unfolded it carefully. Bold, typed words stared back at him:
"The cleaner doesn't work alone. Follow the chain, and you'll see the face."
Attached was a grainy photo of yet another handshake. Patrick Pierce—the ambitious executive—was in it again, his smile sharp as a knife. But beside him was only another blur, scrubbed clean of identity.
Lee's eyes darkened. "They're daring me to follow."
Ray leaned on the desk, smirking faintly. "And you're going to take the bait, aren't you?"
Lee's cold smile was the only answer.
But even as he focused on the shadows, Emily's voice echoed faintly in his mind from earlier: Why do the best-looking ones always have the worst personalities?
For some reason, it lingered longer than he liked.
Lee paced in the dim glow of his secret basement. The photographs pinned to the board stared back at him like ghosts. Patrick Pierce, handshakes, blurred silhouettes—each clue taunted him with its incompleteness.
Ray leaned against the table, watching him with a lopsided grin. "You've been staring at the same photo for twenty minutes. The wall isn't going to confess."
Lee's jaw tightened. "It doesn't have to. The men behind this mess will. I just need to lure them into the open."
Ray arched an eyebrow. "And let me guess—you already have a plan."
Lee turned, his eyes sharp, almost dangerous. "I'll dangle bait they can't ignore. Something that makes them move, fast. Once they take the step—I'll be waiting."
Ray gave a low whistle. "You're scarier than the murderers, boss."
Before Lee could respond, a knock sounded at the hidden basement door. Only one person knew the entrance.
Mr. Grant stepped inside, holding two mugs of tea. His calm, fatherly presence softened the cold air. "You'll wear yourself into the ground, son," he said, setting a mug by the desk. "Your father would have told you the same."
Lee's expression flickered, but only for a second. "I don't have time for rest."
Grant's eyes softened with quiet wisdom. "Then at least make time to let go of what chains you. You cannot chase ghosts forever."
Lee said nothing, only staring harder at the evidence wall.
---
Meanwhile, upstairs in Milton Company's glass tower, Emily smoothed her skirt nervously. The interviewer scanned her résumé with unreadable eyes.
"So, Miss Emily Carter," the man said, adjusting his glasses. "Tell me… why Milton? Why here?"
Emily forced a smile, her voice trembling. Because fate clearly wants me to suffer, she thought. Out loud, she said, "Because I believe Milton gives ordinary people a chance to prove themselves."
Her eyes flicked to the door, half expecting it to swing open with that cold, unreadable face she had just seen.
And deep down, she had a feeling this was only the beginning.