Detective Ava

*The drawer slides open to reveal some notebooks it's around 12 or 14 but there is one thing each one of them contains a love story around 130 to 160 pages handwritten neatly. As one of them is a love story of two students studying in school, love between roommates, long distance relationship, arranged marriage love, etc. With a different plot and characters each time, different ending, different beginning. The perfection is getting a little out of a simple human brain.*

*My eyes widen, scanning the neat rows of notebooks. I pull one out, my fingers tracing the cover before I open it. The pages are filled with a different kind of perfection.* A love story? *A slow, dangerous smile touches my lips.* The killer has a romantic side. *My eyes scan the room.* Or is this his hunting log? *My gaze drifts back to the photo of the smiling child.* What happened to turn a boy who could feel love into a man who only writes about it?

*A slow, dangerous smile spreads across my face. This isn't perfection. It's a cage. I pull a notebook from the drawer, my gloved fingers tracing the cover.* He's not a man. *My voice is a low whisper, full of cold realization.* He's a machine, and these are his gears. *My eyes scan the room.* Every single love story is a simulation of an emotion he can't feel. *My gaze lands back on the photo of the smiling child.* What happened to you, professor? What broke you?

*The bedroom is as spare as the rest of the house. A single bed, made with impossibly tight corners. A wooden chair sits perfectly centered at a small desk. On the desk, a single leather journal and a pen. On the right wall his degree of psychology and his picture with his parents.*

*My eyes lock onto the photo. His parents. A tremor of cold excitement runs through me. I step closer, my gaze fixed on their faces. Then my eyes drift to the journal. My hand reaches out, hesitating just above the leather cover.* Time to read the professor's notes. *My fingers flip the cover open.*

*The first page is blank except for a single, perfect circle drawn in the center. The next page is the same, and the next. Page after page of identical, perfect circles.*

*[Time to check his house.]*

*My fist slams down on the desk, rattling the photos. Enough is enough.* Carl! *My voice cuts through the office. A young officer appears at my door, wide-eyed.* Get a warrant for Aqua Hoshino's residence. *My eyes are like ice.* We're going shopping.

*Carl returns 30 minutes later, clutching a warrant. He looks nervous.* We have it, Detective. Are we... heading out now?

*My eyes narrow, locking onto his. The fluency, the lack of hesitation... it's a confession in itself.* You know that verse well. *My voice drops, low and intense.* Tell me, professor... was Uncle Murphy not 'abounding with blessings'? Was he making 'haste to be rich'? Or was he just in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong book?

*His gaze holds hers, a beat too long, before he looks away.* well I want to share something with you detective....you know some years ago I read a line 'People aren't good...they are scared'. I wonder if you want to know the meaning....

*I lean back in my chair, a slow, deliberate movement. My gaze doesn't leave his face, my expression unreadable.* I'm listening. *My voice is low, flat.* Explain what a psychology professor means when he says people are just scared.

*My eyes narrow. I lean across the table, my voice dropping to a low, intense whisper.* Oh, I think you're both. *My gaze is unwavering.* Theory without application is useless, wouldn't you agree, professor? Now, try again.

*He meets her intense gaze without flinching, his own eyes like chips of ice. A beat of silence hangs between them.* well you give me a situation in which cop is and I will apply the theory...

*I push my chair back with a harsh scrape, the sound echoing in the room. I walk around the table, stopping directly behind you. My voice is a low whisper near your ear.* You tell me, professor. A cop is getting too close to the truth. The final exam is now.

*My pen scratches the word 'Misdirection' across the page, underlining it twice.* He's a master of it. Every answer is a perfectly crafted labyrinth. *My eyes narrow, a predator scenting a trail.* He never lies... he just buries the truth under a mountain of plausible deniability.

*My pen taps against the notepad, a sharp staccato in the quiet office.* His formality isn't courtesy. It's a weapon. A way to de-escalate, to pacify... to make me doubt my own instincts. *My gaze is fixed on his photo.* A professor teaching control. The perfect, untouchable killer.

*Later on she start to make a report of day one which she will send to her senior officer, Mr Gracewell a man in his late 40s.*

*My fingers trace the lines of the report, but my mind is a million miles away. It's stuck on his face, that infuriatingly calm expression. He's guilty, I know it. I just have to prove it. A soft knock on my office door pulls me from my thoughts.* Come in. *My voice is sharp, edged with impatience.*

*A young officer enters, clutching a folder. He looks nervous.* Detective Thorne, the full report on the suspect is here. *He places it on my desk, his eyes darting to the wall of case files before he quickly exits.*

*My eyes don't leave the file in front of me.* Just leave it. *The door clicks shut, and I finally drag my gaze up. I snatch the folder, flipping it open. His picture is paper-clipped to the first page.* Let's see what secrets you're hiding, Aqua.

*I slowly gather the photographs, my eyes never leaving yours. A cold smile touches my lips.* This conversation is far from over. We'll continue in 24 hours. *I stand and walk to the door, pausing with my hand on the knob.* I'll find the truth, one way or another.

*Aqua gives a slight nod, his deep blue eyes briefly meeting hers* See you tomorrow then, Detective....by the way I really like your hairs...

*I pause at the door, glancing back over my shoulder. A humorless smile plays on my lips.* Get a new line. *I walk out, letting the door click shut behind me.*

*She stares at you for a few moments, her expression unreadable. She seems to be processing your words. She then leans forward and picks up the photograph.* So, you're saying that you saw this man at Uncle Murphy's farm? *She looks at you intently, her eyes searching for any sign of deception.* And you have no idea who he is or why he was there?

*My patience is wearing thin. I slam my hand on the table.* Don't mock me. *I slide the crime scene photos closer to him.* Look at these wounds. No ordinary person could inflict this kind of damage.

*I shrug, my gaze drifting to the handcuffs on my wrists before meeting her eyes again* Maybe he was there for eggs too, Detective. Or maybe he was discussing fertilizer....

*She stares at you for a few seconds, her expression unreadable. She seems to be processing your words.* You seem to have a rather... unique perspective on the matter. *She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms.* May I ask why you think God called him?

who am I to judge miss detective.....*He looks back at her with his deep blue eyes*

*She raises an eyebrow and smirks. She seems to be enjoying this little game of cat and mouse.* Well, you're certainly an interesting individual. *She pulls out another photograph and places it on the table. This time, it's a picture of the second victim.* Tell me, do you recognize this person?