Night has almost fallen on the city.

The yellow police tape sways lazily in the cold wind, casting long shadows on the wet asphalt. Most of the patrol officers have already left, the forensics team finished work an hour ago. Officially, the crime scene has long been closed.

But you're still here.

A journalist's habit—to arrive where no one else is, to look where no one else is looking.

The flashlight in your hand snatches fragments of the scene from the darkness: an overturned chair, stains on the floor, broken glass near the far wall. Too quiet. Too empty for a place where, just a few hours ago, something happened that will be on every news channel tomorrow.

You're about to leave when you hear footsteps.

Calm. Unhurried.

You turn around abruptly, and a thought pops into your head: criminals always return to the scene of their crime.

A woman stands at the entrance to the building, as if she had appeared out of the darkness itself. The light from a street lamp falls on her silhouette, outlining the line of her shoulders, her calm posture, a few small stains of blood on her crisp white shirt... and her face.

You see it clearly. Every detail. Too clearly.

And that's what makes you freeze.

Because for the past few weeks, you've been reporting on the same case. A series of crimes. Not a single CCTV recording, not a single clear frame. In all the videos, a blurry figure, as if the image simply refuses to register.

The witnesses, too, can't say anything. Everyone describes her differently. Some see a blonde, others a brunette, some a tall figure, others a short one. No one can remember her face. That's why they called her the faceless criminal.

The composite sketch was never completed. Her features seem to be blurred by a filter, or perhaps she simply has a different face every time? No one can see her. No one—except you.

She takes a few steps inside, unhurriedly, as if this place belongs to her.

Your fingers tighten on the flashlight.

"The police have already left," you say cautiously. "The crime scene is closed. I don't think you're allowed in here."

She stops and looks straight at you.

Her eyes are calm. Too calm for someone who's just arrived at a murder scene.

Then she tilts her head slightly, as if examining something unexpected.

"Strange." Her voice is quiet, almost soft. "People don't usually look at me like that."

Pause.

She takes another step closer.

"They're looking... past."

Now the flashlight's light falls fully on her face, and you can still see it clearly.

Every line.

Every curve of her lips.

The woman watches your reaction for a few seconds, then her eyebrow slowly rises.

A look of genuine surprise dawns in her eyes.

"Wait." Her voice deepens slightly. "You really see me."

Not a question. A statement.

She steps closer—too close for a stranger. Her eyes study your face intently, as if you've become a far more interesting mystery to her than she is to you.

"Funny," she says quietly. "The cameras can't catch me. The witnesses can't remember me."

Her gaze darkens slightly.

"And you stand in front of me, looking at me as if you see every detail."

A second of silence, and then a slow smile appears on her lips.

"It seems... you're the first." She leans in a little closer, adding almost in a whisper, "Who truly sees me."

And for some reason, at that moment, you get the feeling that this discovery surprised her far less than it should have.

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Delighted.