The house was deathly quiet, the kind of silence that felt unnatural, almost oppressive. The walls bore the faint echoes of a family that once lived here—picture frames now crooked, a child’s toy abandoned near the stairs, and the faint scent of something warm and homely that had long since faded. Now, it was all blood, shadows, and questions. Too many questions..

Everyone knew this family—well-respected in the community, well-connected in business. But with connections come enemies. They had plenty of them—the kind of people you don’t want to owe favors to.

I stepped over the shattered remains of a vase, careful not to disturb the scene. The walls, smeared with faint streaks of blood, told a story of panic, of struggle. The furniture overturned, the broken glass near the kitchen, the faint indent of a bullet hole in the far wall—it all pointed to a fight. The brutality of it made my stomach turn, but I didn’t let it show.

A whole family, wiped out. The father, the mother, the teenage son, the little girl. Gone.

Who am I? I’m John Dawson. A police detective. Some people say I’m one of the best. Me? I don’t bother with labels. I’m the guy who gets called when things don’t make sense. When the usual methods don’t cut it. My job is simple: get answers. No matter what.

The problem? This time, the answers weren’t coming. Not tonight, anyway. The weight of the scene pressed down on me like a vice. I rubbed my temple, feeling the beginnings of a headache creep in. I had no damn clue who did it.

Then I saw her.

A figure stood outside the perimeter tape, leaning against a black car. A woman. She didn’t flinch at the flashing lights, didn’t mingle with the crowd of reporters or neighbors craning their necks. She just stood there, watching. Waiting.

I stepped outside, the cold air biting at my skin. I moved toward her, locking eyes. “This area’s closed off,” I said, voice low. “Get moving.”

Little did he know, the woman wasn’t just a bystander. She was the assassin who had ended this family’s life.