"What is it?" Vincent's voice carried a heavy weight of apprehension, thickening the air around him.
The IT specialist's fingers danced across the keyboard, images flickering on the screen like shadowy apparitions.
"These pictures weren't just emailed to Mr. Clyde. They were also sent to this email address," he explained, pointing at the screen.
With purposeful keystrokes, he revealed, "It belongs to Tristan Heisenberg."
Vincent's world suddenly felt like a complex puzzle with missing pieces. His gaze locked onto Greg, seeking answers in the depths of his bewildered eyes.
An unsettling sense of uncertainty gnawed at the edges of Vincent's consciousness.
Who was toying with them now?
With an abrupt, erratic motion, his amber eyes darted through the room as if trying to grasp the elusive threads of this perplexing puzzle.
Panic infiltrated his gaze, gradually sapping the color from his face.
