A family decided to spend their holiday in a quiet, picturesque town. On their third evening, they visited a cozy café for dinner, their laughter and smiles painting a picture of perfect harmony.
The boy excused himself to place an order, his steps light and carefree. But as he stood at the counter, a voice—low and sinister—brushed against his ear:
"Kill them."
He didn't flinch. His hand darted to a knife on the counter. His heartbeat slowed, his mind razor-sharp, every ounce of hesitation burned away.
With cold precision, he turned and strode back to the table.
The first stab silenced his father's laughter, the man's chest erupting in crimson. His mother screamed—a high-pitched, gut-wrenching sound—but it was cut short as he turned the blade on her. The little boy, wide-eyed and trembling, clutched at the edge of his chair.
No emotion crossed the killer's face as he drove the knife into his younger brother, silencing his faint, trembling voice forever.
The café's warm atmosphere turned icy. Blood pooled beneath the table, the air thick with the metallic scent of death. The boy stood amidst the carnage, his chest rising and falling in deep, deliberate breaths.
In the corner, a man with cold, calculating eyes watched. His expression was unreadable, but the faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips. His name was Kyle.
Ken's Investigation Begins
Ken lay sprawled on the couch in his cabin, his gaze fixed on the glowing monitor beside him. The case file rested loosely in his hand. The buzz of his phone broke the silence.
He answered it, the tension in the caller's voice pulling him upright. Moments later, he was on his way to the crime scene.
The café was a chaotic blend of flashing lights and murmured voices. Officers swarmed the area, cordoning it off, while paramedics moved methodically, preparing to remove the bodies.
Ken stepped inside, his sharp eyes immediately drawn to the scene. Plates of food were soaked in blood, chairs upturned. Three bodies, a man, a woman, and a young boy, lay lifeless.
"Ken," an officer called, approaching with a grim expression.
Ken barely nodded, his focus on the grotesque tableau before him. "What do we know?"
The officer swallowed hard. "A boy… He killed his parents and his little brother."
Ken's jaw clenched. He scanned the scene, his mind already working. "A boy," he repeated, the disbelief in his tone shadowed by something deeper.
The Interrogation
Ken: "What do you think you are?"
The boy's voice wavered. "Am I… nothing?"
Ken leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Do you even realize what you've done?"
The boy's lips curled into a sneer. "I know exactly what I've done."
Ken's voice was steady, probing. "Then why? Your father—"
The boy's eyes flashed with anger. "He deserved it! Always shouting, taunting, making me feel worthless. I hated him."
Ken's gaze didn't soften. "And your mother?"
The boy's laugh was bitter. "She was just like him. Selfish. Always busy shopping, showing off, like I didn't even exist."
Ken's voice dropped an octave, cold and sharp. "Fine. But what about your little brother? He was just a child. He looked up to you."
The boy's mask faltered for a moment, his hands trembling slightly. "Before he was born, everything was perfect. My parents gave me whatever I wanted. But after he came, I was… nothing. Every 'no' was because of him."
His voice cracked, anger and pain entwined. "My life was hell because of them. I hated all of them!"
Ken's expression didn't waver. "Hatred doesn't give you the right to play God."
The Crime Scene Analysis
Head Officer: "What do you think, Ken?"
Ken: "It doesn't add up. In the CCTV footage, he's laughing, joking with his family, completely normal. Then, minutes later, he grabs a knife and murders them. No hesitation. Nothing."
Head Officer: "Exactly. He had so many chances earlier—alone with them in their hotel room, during walks—but he chose here. In public."
Ken: "That's what's unsettling. It's not impulsive. It's like something… switched. Like someone flipped a switch in his mind."
Head Officer: "You think someone was pulling the strings?"
Ken: "I don't know yet. But whatever it is… it's not over."
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