The rain tapped a sinister rhythm against the window panes of Infiniti's grimy skyline, casting the city in a veil of shadows. Inside the dimly lit apartment, the crime scene was a canvas of chaos, illuminated by the flashes of police cameras capturing every gruesome detail. Detective Xanadu stood at the threshold, her keen eyes absorbing the devastation laid before her. The victim, a young woman, lay lifeless amidst the remnants of her ransacked home. The axe that had ended her life rested a few feet away, slick with evidence of its brutal purpose.
A uniformed officer approached Xanadu, his voice low and grave. Detective, the victim's name is Clara Hayes. Neighbors say she was a pole dancer at one of the clubs downtown. No sign of forced entry, but it looks like a struggle took place.
Xanadu nodded, stepping further into the room, her mind piecing together fragments of a puzzle. Was she followed home, you think? she asked, crouching beside the body, her gloved fingers brushing the cold, lifeless hand.
Possibly, the officer replied. But it's too early to say. We're still canvassing for witnesses.
She took a deep breath, feeling the weight of responsibility settling on her shoulders. Keep me updated.
The next day, the city was awash with rumors and fear, the murder headline splashed across every media outlet. The police station buzzed with tension, the air thick with unspoken dread. The chief of police, a stoic figure with worry etched into his features, called Xanadu into his office.
Xanadu, we need to get ahead of this, he said, his voice barely masking his frustration. The media's having a field day, and the mayor's breathing down my neck. What do we have so far?
We're working through the evidence, Chief, Xanadu replied, her tone firm yet respectful. I've got a meeting with Dante later. Hopefully, he'll have some insights.
The chief nodded, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. Keep me posted, and Xanadu—catch this bastard.
As the day wore on, Xanadu made her way to the morgue, a place where the air was always too cold, and the truth was always too stark. Dante, the forensic pathologist, stood over the steel table, his eyes devoid of any illusions about humanity's nature.
Detective, he greeted her with a nod, his hands busy with his grim task. I've got the preliminary results. Our victim suffered multiple blows, the axe wounds suggest rage, or perhaps desperation. No signs of sexual assault, but defensive wounds indicate she fought back.
Xanadu listened intently, her mind racing. Anything else?
Dante shrugged, a hint of cynicism in his gaze. People are selfish, Detective. Someone wanted something she had, or she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It's always about what people want.
His words lingered with Xanadu as she left the morgue, the gravity of the case pressing heavily upon her. As night descended once more over Infiniti, she stood alone in her small apartment, staring out into the darkness, her thoughts a storm of unanswered questions and unsettling possibilities.
Whoever the killer was, they were out there, watching, waiting. The game of wits had only just begun, and Xanadu knew that to catch this wolf, she'd need to embrace her own inner wolf.
The hunt was on.