Book Synopsis
Book Tags
Donation Rankings
Comment
0 Comments
You May Also Like
Night Wolf
墨書 Inktalez
Emma Ross reached out to pull aside the yellow caution tape hanging in the center of the door. The nylon strap snapped back, emitting a faint vibrating sound. She bent down, preparing to step underneath, but was abruptly stopped by a strong arm.
"Stop."
The voice was low but carried an oppressive warning. A colleague from the Forensic Department stood slightly ahead of her, frowning as he pointed to the ground beneath her feet.
Following his gaze, Emma looked down and felt her chest tighten instantly, as if something had gripped her breath—
The carpet at her feet was completely soaked in blood, the deep crimson seeping into the fibers, its edges dark and sticky. Under the dim red light of the brothel, it resembled a rotting peach forgotten in a shadowy corner, finally unable to hold itself together, bursting open with viscous juice that was nauseatingly thick.
And in the center of that pool of blood lay a severed hand, quietly resting.
Its fingers were slightly curled, dried blood and flesh debris lodged beneath the nails, palm facing up as if it had still been trying to grasp something in its final moments—perhaps the hem of the killer's clothing or a last flicker of survival instinct. But now, nothing remained except a puddle of congealed blood and fragments of the deceased's body, intertwining into a bizarre and desperate tableau.
The air was thick with a mingling scent of decay and cheap perfume unique to the brothel, laced with the metallic tang of blood and an unsettling dampness. Emma felt her stomach churn, a strong wave of nausea rising in her throat. She closed her eyes, attempting to steady her breath, but the sweet metallic odor in her nostrils felt like an invisible hand tightly gripping her throat, forcing her to swallow back the rising disgust.
This wasn’t her first time at a murder scene, but this one was particularly gruesome.
Slowly opening her eyes, she took a small step back, her fingertips instinctively tightening. This was not just an ordinary murder case; it was a hunt.
Emma moved forward through the narrow corridor, her shoes softly pressing against the worn carpet that had absorbed too much dirt over time, producing a muffled scraping sound. What had once been an ordinary small suite had been brutally transformed by a pimp into an oppressive hive. The thirty-some square meters had been forcibly divided into eight rooms, with flimsy partition walls that didn’t even bother to install soundproofing material; it felt as if even a slight gasp could be heard throughout the entire space.
The air was thick as if it had solidified, mingling cheap perfume with sweat, tobacco smoke, and unmasked odors of decay; each step felt like sinking into a hot, humid quagmire.
Emma approached the first room, the door slightly ajar. She pushed it open, and a sharp, acrid smell mixed with a heavy scent of death rushed to meet her.
The room was pitifully small, barely able to fit a wardrobe. The pink paint on the walls was peeling and damp, exuding a musty odor. In this cramped space, two bodies lay quietly.
One was a pimp, naked from the waist down, having not even managed to pull up his pants before collapsing face down beside the bed. A gaping wound had opened in the back of his head, scattering brain matter and blood across the walls and carpet, creating a gruesome dark red splatter. His body remained rigid in the position he fell, arms bent as if he had been struck down before he could even struggle.
In the corner, another body curled up—a naked prostitute leaning against the wall, her legs drawn up. Her chest was slightly sunken, as if she instinctively tried to make herself small enough to disappear in her final moments. A bullet had struck her face, entering through her cheekbone and nearly tearing half of her face away. Blood dripped from her chin along her collarbone and down her emaciated body, painting her with crimson scars.
The floor was littered with chaotic remnants—crumpled tissues, used condoms, and a bottle of lubricant tipped over beside the bed. Greasy liquid slowly seeped into the carpet fibers, while several cheap sex toys lay scattered about as if their owner had just finished using them and hadn’t had time to clean up.
Emma stood at the doorway, feeling a heaviness in her chest as nausea rose in her throat. She had seen crime scenes before, but here, death carried an unusual weight of oppression and humiliation. It felt not just like murder but rather a silent ritual of torture.
Leaning against the doorframe, Emma’s gaze calmly swept over the bodies, bloodstains, and those desolate, filthy remnants. Her mind quickly pieced together the events of this murder.
It was a silent slaughter—precise, swift, and even efficient.
The suspect had clearly entered this cramped room unnoticed by the victims. Perhaps with the pimp's tacit approval or just a gentle push; that cheap wooden door opened as if it were made of paper. He hadn’t startled anyone nor left any signs of struggle behind; it was as if this massacre had been entirely under his control from start to finish.
The first bullet struck the pimp from behind with clean precision. It felt less like killing and more like dismantling an object that had lost its utility. The explosion of his head splattered red and white across the wall; the resulting marks resembled some form of modern art—except this artwork's medium—blood, brain matter, shattered skull—still bore warmth.
The prostitute must have huddled in terror in that corner, legs trembling; she might have even choked on a scream lodged in her throat. She tried to curl into herself as if shrinking would keep death at bay. But such a trivial instinct for survival meant nothing to the assailant. Without hesitation, he raised his gun; a bullet pierced through her cheekbone, tearing her face apart in an instant while a crimson bloom blossomed on the wall behind her.
Two bodies lay there: one like a discarded doll on the floor and the other curled helplessly in the corner—as if within this room there had been no choice in life or death.
Two police officers were silently sifting through the evidence, but the problem was that this evidence was starkly different from what one would typically find at a crime scene.
One of them crouched by the bed, holding a blood-soaked massager, his expression as if he had just discovered the world's malice. He slightly parted his lips but couldn't utter a word, his gaze fixed on the dripping toy, as if questioning the very essence of life.
The other officer stood nearby, holding a pair of fuzzy handcuffs splattered with brain matter. His nose twitched as he muttered under his breath, "So... is this really a murder scene, or just an exceptionally wild sex party?"
"Either way, the result is the same—someone's dead," his partner replied flatly, his tone laced with a weariness that suggested he had long since grown numb to such horrors.
The absurdity of the scene made Emma stifle a laugh in her mind. This didn't feel like a police investigation; it resembled two unfortunate clowns forced to rummage through a pile of bodies for props stained with bodily fluids and blood, all to confirm whether these items were related to the killer's method. Poor guys; this was likely the most regrettable day of their careers.
Emma didn't linger any longer; she knew this was just the beginning—the game was far from over.
Comment 0 Comment Count