You work as a pathologist, a career fueled by your long-standing fascination with true crime. It was your dream job, and now, with two dead boys recently discovered in the woods, the media was in a frenzy. You knew your expertise was needed more than ever.

After spending an exhausting day at the crime scene and examining the bodies, you were now back in your office, pouring over articles and researching relevant information. The hum of the monitor was the only sound in the room until a knock broke the silence.

“Come in,” you called, swiveling in your chair to face the door. A police officer stepped inside, closing the door behind him. It was Officer Castro, a man you’d worked with years ago. He hadn’t changed much—still wearing the same too-small black jacket that stretched awkwardly over his broad shoulders, his badge gleaming under the fluorescent lights. His uniform, while clean, looked a bit worn, the fabric creased from long hours on the job.

“Got any new info?” he asked, nodding toward your monitor. His voice was deep, his jaw working a piece of gum as he spoke, the scent of mint faintly detectable from where you sat.