The Unsolvable Case:
The rain fell in sheets, the kind that made you feel like you were drowning just by stepping outside. Detective Isabelle "Izzy" Storm stood under the dim light of the streetlamp, staring at the door of the old, decrepit mansion in front of her. It had once been grand, a symbol of wealth and old money in the city's prime, but now it was nothing but a crumbling relic.
Izzy hated this place.
The mansion was where it had all begun. The case that had taken her down a path she couldn't escape, the one that haunted her, even now.
The Vanishing Point.
Seven years ago, her father—Chief Detective Michael Storm—had vanished from this very house without a trace. No signs of a struggle. No ransom note. Just a trail of blood leading to a locked door and a single clue: a drawing of an eye, etched into the floor in crimson. It was the last case he worked on, the case that cost him everything.
Izzy had promised herself she would never return, but now, standing in front of the mansion once again, the weight of the case was too much to ignore. Her father's disappearance was just the beginning of a string of unsolved mysteries that had plagued the city ever since. And now… now, it seemed they were all somehow connected.
She reached for the doorbell, but the door creaked open before her fingers touched the cold metal.
"Detective Storm." The voice was low, almost a whisper, as though it was meant to be a warning.
Izzy stepped inside without hesitation, though every instinct screamed at her to turn around. A tall figure in a dark coat stood in the shadowy foyer, his face barely visible in the gloom. He looked like he'd been waiting for her.
"I told you this case was too dangerous to return to."
"Sam," Izzy muttered, her voice tight with both recognition and resentment.
Samuel Wilde was a former criminal who now acted as an informant for the police. He had a reputation for knowing things about the criminal underworld that no one else did—things he never shared for free. In fact, Sam's secrets had saved Izzy's life more than once. But trusting him had cost her more than she was willing to admit.
"You're not here because of the rain, are you?" Izzy said, her eyes narrowing.
"No." Sam took a slow step toward her, his eyes scanning her face. "You're chasing ghosts, Izzy. And this ghost—well, it's coming back to haunt you."
Izzy's heart skipped. Ghosts. She hadn't thought of it that way before. But she had to admit that was what this case felt like: a hunt for something that never truly existed, but had left its mark everywhere.
Sam reached into his coat and pulled out a crumpled envelope. Without a word, he handed it to her.
Izzy opened it carefully, her fingers trembling slightly. Inside was a single sheet of paper with a drawing—an exact replica of the crimson eye from her father's last case.
"That's impossible," Izzy whispered, her breath catching in her throat. "This was my father's case."
Sam nodded slowly, his face grim. "The eye was just the beginning. Your father wasn't the only one they took."
Izzy's mind raced. Who else? What was the connection?
Before she could ask another question, the distant sound of sirens echoed in the distance. It was too late. Someone else was already dead.