Emma and Alex rushed through the gates of Elizabeth's Juvenile Center, their urgency barely contained as they stormed inside. The receptionist barely reacted. if anything, she seemed eerily calm, almost expectant.
"We need to see Cain," Emma demanded, catching her breath.
The receptionist's serene smile didn't waver. "Of course. Follow me."
She led them through the quiet halls, the sound of distant laughter from children echoing in the background. As they approached the common area, Emma's heart pounded. And then—they saw him.
Cain sat among a group of children, his small hands moving methodically across a sketchbook. His expression was peaceful, focused. And when he lifted his gaze and saw them, his lips curled into a knowing smile.
Emma took a step forward, but before she could go any further, the receptionist gently raised a hand. "You'll have to wait. The director would like to speak with you first."
Emma clenched her jaw. "We don't have time for—"
"You do," the receptionist interrupted, her voice as smooth as ever. "Please, this way."
Emma and Alex exchanged glances, frustration burning between them, but they had no choice. They let the receptionist lead them deeper into the facility.
The director's office was dimly lit, the scent of old books and ink lingering in the air. The man behind the desk was older, his features sharp but softened by an unsettling warmth. He welcomed them with a smile, his eyes gleaming as if he had been waiting for this meeting.
"Detectives," he greeted, his voice carrying an almost lyrical quality. "It's a pleasure."
Emma wasted no time. "We need to see Cain's documents. He was adopted from here, right?"
The director nodded, still smiling, as he slid a file across the desk. "Of course."
Alex flipped it open, his eyes scanning the pages. Then his expression darkened.
"There's no birth certificate," he muttered. "No records before his adoption. Just a basic description."
Emma leaned over his shoulder, her pulse quickening. It was as if Cain had simply appeared one day, a blank slate with only the details that had been assigned to him.
The director watched them with an almost amused expression. Then, as if the conversation had taken a poetic turn, he murmured,
"An angel passes through, unseen by most, but those who glimpse him know. he changes everything."
The words sent a chill through the air. Emma's hands tightened into fists.
"What does that mean?" she pressed.
The director only smiled, his gaze flickering to a small, ornate symbol on his desk. a circle with a single eye at its center.
"We're done here," Alex said abruptly, snapping the file shut. He grabbed Emma's arm and pulled her toward the door.
As they left, Emma glanced back. The director was still smiling, his fingers tracing the edge of the symbol on his desk.
Emma and Alex, shaken by the inconsistencies at the juvenile center, knew they had only one real source left, the old man. He had given them answers when no one else would. If anyone could shed light on what was happening, it was him.
The drive back to the apartment complex felt heavier this time. The streets were quiet, eerily so, as if the city itself was holding its breath.
When they reached the old man's door, Emma knocked. No answer.
Alex tried. "Sir? It's us."
Still nothing.
A cold feeling crept up Emma's spine. She glanced at Alex, and without another word, he pushed the door open.
The air inside was stale, thick with the coppery scent of blood.
The old man was there—lifeless, slumped in his chair. His head tilted unnaturally to the side, eyes wide open in a frozen expression of something between fear and understanding.
But it was the wall behind him that stopped them in their tracks.
Blood was smeared across it, forming a message.
"When you stare into the eye, do you ever wonder what it sees in you?"
Emma took a step back, her breath caught in her throat.
Alex clenched his fists, his pulse hammering. This wasn't just a warning. It was a taunt. A message left specifically for them.
The room felt suffocating. The old man had known too much, and now he was gone.
Emma's voice was barely a whisper. "This isn't a case anymore, Alex."
He exhaled sharply, jaw tightening. "No. This is a game."
One Week Later
The days after the old man's murder were restless. Emma barely slept. Alex buried himself in paperwork, obsessing over details they might have missed. But the truth was—they had nothing. No leads, no suspects, just that damned message on the wall.
"When you stare into the eye, do you ever wonder what it sees in you?"
It haunted them. The old man had been their only real source of information, and now he was dead. Murdered. And they had been too late.
A week passed before Emma finally said it.
"We need to find the investigator."
Alex looked up from the sketchbook the missing boy's mother had given them, his eyes tired but sharp.
"The one who worked the case 15 years ago?"
Emma nodded. "If this is all connected, he's the only one left who might know what the hell is going on."
Alex sighed, rubbing his temples. "You really think he'll talk?"
Emma closed her hands into fists. "He will. He has to."
The man they were looking for was Walter Halloway, a former detective now rotting in retirement, barely clinging to sanity. His address was listed under a cheap house at the edge of town, the kind of place where people went to be forgotten.
When they pulled up, the place was worse than expected—overgrown weeds, rusted mailbox, curtains drawn tight.
Emma knocked.
Silence.
She knocked again, harder this time. "Mr. Halloway? We need to talk."
A shuffling sound came from inside. Then, slowly, the door creaked open just enough for a pair of tired, bloodshot eyes to meet theirs.
Walter Halloway looked like a man half-dead. His skin was pale, his face sunken, and the smell of whiskey clung to him like a second skin.
"You shouldn't be here," he muttered, voice hoarse.
Alex held out his badge. "We're here about the missing boy."
Walter's eyes flickered—recognition, maybe fear—but he said nothing. He started to shut the door.
Emma pushed against it. "You investigated his disappearance, didn't you? You got close. Close enough that someone wanted you to stop."
That made him pause. His grip on the doorframe tightened.
"Close enough to get my whole family slaughtered," he whispered.
Emma and Alex exchanged a look.
Walter exhaled sharply, then stepped aside, letting them in.
The house was a mess. Empty bottles stacked in corners, old case files scattered across the table. Newspaper clippings. The walls were lined with memories of a case long buried.
They sat across from him, waiting.
Finally, Walter spoke.
"Fifteen years ago, a boy vanished without a trace. No body, no ransom, no evidence. Just gone. I chased every lead, every whisper. And then, one day… I got too close."
He swallowed, his fingers trembling as he reached for a photo—an old crime scene picture.
"My wife. My son. Found in our home. Their throats slit."
Emma inhaled sharply.
"But that wasn't the worst part." His voice cracked. "Behind them, written in their blood, was a message."
He slowly turned the photo toward them.
Emma's stomach dropped.
Alex's hands clenched.
The words on the wall were identical to the ones they had found behind the old man's corpse.
"When you stare into the eye, do you ever wonder what it sees in you?"
Silence suffocated the room.
Walter wiped a shaking hand over his face. "I dropped the case that night. Because I knew… if I kept digging, my daughter was next."
Emma's breath was shallow. "Your daughter… she survived?"
Walter nodded. "She was at a friend's house that night. That's the only reason she's still alive."
Alex leaned forward. "And you never told anyone?"
"I didn't need to," Walter said darkly. "They made their message clear. I let it go. I let it all go."
Emma clenched her fists. "But it didn't stop. The old man who gave us information—he's dead now. And the message was written on his wall, just like yours."
Walter's eyes darkened. "Then it's happening again."
Alex, struggling to steady his voice, asked the only question that mattered:
"What the hell is The Eye?"
Walter exhaled slowly, then met their gaze with something between resignation and terror.
"It's not watching you," he said quietly. "It's watching for you."