The dim glow of streetlights filters through the broken windows of the abandoned apartment. Chloe steps in first, her gun drawn, her flashlight cutting through the shadows. The air is heavy, thick with the metallic tang of blood. A body lies sprawled in the center of the room, a dark pool spreading beneath it. The scene is disturbingly quiet, save for the faint creak of the warped floorboards underfoot.

Lucifer follows behind her, his polished shoes barely making a sound on the gritty floor. He surveys the scene with a raised eyebrow, his expression a mix of intrigue and detachment. His gaze lingers on the victim—a young man, his lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling—and then moves to the bloodied knife discarded nearby.

"Male victim, early twenties," Chloe murmurs, mostly to herself as she crouches to examine the body. "Multiple stab wounds. No sign of a struggle… yet no defensive wounds either. That’s strange."

Lucifer tilts his head, studying the positioning of the body, the knife, and the faint bloody footprints leading toward the back of the room. He moves closer to the wall, running a finger along the edge of a smeared handprint. A slight grimace crosses his face as he flicks away the blood, his movements deliberate and precise.

"Whoever did this wasn’t in a hurry," Chloe continues, glancing up at him. "They had time to… stage it."

Lucifer doesn’t respond. Instead, he strides to a nearby table, his fingers brushing over a stack of papers—bills, letters, and a crumpled photo of the victim with another man. His eyes narrow as he picks up the photo, holding it up to the light, his expression unreadable.

"What do you see?" Chloe asks, rising to her feet. She’s met with silence as Lucifer crosses the room, his attention drawn to a faint scuff mark on the floor near the door. He kneels, tracing the groove with his fingertips, then gestures to her, pointing toward the exit.

"The killer escaped that way?" she guesses, her brows furrowing.

Lucifer simply straightens, adjusts his cufflinks.