A crime story

The rain started at exactly 2:17 a.m.—the kind that turns the city into a blur of neon and secrets.

Detective Arben Kola hated nights like this. Not because of the cold, or the soaked coat clinging to his back—but

because rain washed things away.

Footprints. Blood. Truth.

He stood outside a narrow apartment building, its flickering hallway light buzzing like it knew something.

A woman had been found inside. No signs of forced entry. No witnesses. No noise. Too clean.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of lavender—and something metallic underneath.

The victim lay on the kitchen floor, eyes wide open, like she had seen the answer just before it was too late.

Arben crouched beside her. No struggle. No overturned furniture. Just a single glass of wine on the table. And another

across from it.

"Two people,"

he muttered.

His partner, Mira, leaned against the doorframe.

"Neighbor says she lived alone."

"People lie. Or they don't notice."

Arben stood up and scanned the room. That's when he saw it—a tiny drop of blood on the sink.

Not hers. Too far from the body. The killer made a mistake.

Hours later, the lab confirmed it: the blood didn't match the victim.

It belonged to a man already in the system—Ilir Dema, a small-time criminal who had disappeared months ago.

But here's the thing. Ilir Dema had been found dead two weeks earlier.

Arben stared at the report, the rain still tapping against the window like a warning.

"A dead man leaves blood at a fresh crime scene,"

Mira said quietly.

"That's not possible."

Arben didn't answer. Because he had seen this before. Same pattern. Same silence. Same impossible evidence.

Someone wasn't just committing murder. They were rewriting the timeline.

And if Arben was right… The killer wasn't just covering their tracks.

They were making sure no one could ever follow them.