Chapter Text
The top floor of the imposing Blackthorn Holdings building was Bruno Yuson's private sanctuary.
Two soft knocks echoed through the room, breaking the almost reverent silence of the office.
"Come in," Bruno's voice rang out, deep and controlled.
The door creaked softly as it opened, revealing Sofia Vasquez. She held a folder tightly against her chest like an improvised shield. Before saying a single word, she gently closed the door behind her, the click of the lock sounding like thunder in the otherwise silent room.
Their eyes met, a silent duel of restrained emotions. Neither smile broke the tension.
Sofia remained standing near the entrance, her gaze fixed on Bruno. There were days when he seemed like an island, distant and unreachable. It wasn't coldness, but an invisible barrier that kept her from getting close.
She was the first to break the silence, her voice as delicate as silk in the stillness.
Her gaze wandered across the room out of habit. The imposing desk. The floor-to-ceiling window framing the city skyline. The computer screen still glowing.
Bruno looked up from the documents, his expression unreadable.
"You wanted to speak with me?"
A faint, almost imperceptible smile appeared on Sofia's lips.
"Actually, you're the one who said you wanted to talk."
He seemed to snap out of a trance, a flicker of distraction crossing his eyes.
"That's right."
He closed the folder he had been reading with a slow, deliberate motion, removed his glasses, and set them carefully on the desk.
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, only weighed down by palpable caution. They both seemed to know where this conversation would lead, yet neither dared take the first step.
Sofia crossed her arms, shifting her weight onto one leg, a posture that conveyed both defiance and vulnerability. She watched Bruno for several seconds, waiting for him to look at her on his own. When he didn't, she took a deep breath, gathering the courage she needed.
"You've been avoiding me."
The words came out quietly, almost too controlled, as though each one had been carefully measured.
Bruno didn't answer immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the city beyond the glass, as if searching for an answer among the illuminated skyscrapers. Only after several long seconds did he turn back to her.
"I'm not..."
He slowly let out a breath, a sigh so quiet it was nearly inaudible. For a moment he simply watched her reflection in the glass, a distorted image mirroring his own uncertainty.
"I've just been busy."
She smiled again, but this time there wasn't the slightest trace of humor.
"That excuse used to work."
She turned fully toward him, her voice laced with restrained frustration.
"Now it's just exhausting."
Bruno rose from his chair. His suit jacket was still impeccably tailored, but his tie—an almost invisible detail to anyone else—had been loosened ever so slightly.
Sofia recognized the sign.
She knew he only did that when the pressure became too much, when the façade of absolute control was beginning to crack.
"These past few weeks have been complicated," he said, his voice softer than before.
She held his gaze without wavering.
"Only for you?"
"For us," he corrected automatically, the words coming out like a conditioned reflex.
Sofia inhaled deeply.
She wanted to believe him.
But her faith had faded some time ago, quietly replaced by suspicion.
Her eyes drifted involuntarily toward the photograph on his desk.
Bruno and Enid—the perfect golden couple—smiled at the camera during a charity gala. She wore a dark navy gown with effortless elegance. He displayed the carefully practiced smile that appeared in every one of his campaign photographs.
The polished silver frame, spotless and free of even a speck of dust, stood as silent testimony to the perfection that surrounded them.
Sofia looked away before her irritation could become visible.
Bruno noticed, following her gaze.
Neither of them said anything.
They didn't need to.
That frame, in its eloquent silence, said everything that needed to be said.
"Sometimes..." Sofia began, choosing her words carefully, "...I get the feeling you've grown comfortable with this situation."
Bruno frowned slightly.
"I haven't."
"Then why does it feel like I'm the only one waiting for something to change?"
The question lingered in the air like a quiet accusation.
Bruno walked slowly toward the desk. His fingers brushed against the picture frame, straightening it by a few millimeters.
An automatic, unconscious gesture.
Sofia followed the movement with a bitter taste in her mouth.
"You always do that," she said, her voice thick with emotion.
He looked up, confusion flickering across his face.
"Do what?"
"Put everything back in place."
She smiled without joy.
"The papers."
Her eyes settled on the photograph.
"The objects."
Then she looked back at him, her voice carrying a painful truth.
"The appearances..."
For a brief moment, Bruno seemed unable to answer, his carefully maintained composure faltering.
A knock at the door interrupted the heavy silence.
"Come in."
The door opened once more, and Enid stepped inside, balancing a blue folder and a small cup of coffee. She wore a light-colored blazer, her hair neatly gathered into a low bun, radiating effortless elegance. The delicate floral scent of her perfume filled the office before Sofia could even react.
"Sorry to interrupt," Enid said with a polite smile.
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
Sofia instinctively took a step back, suddenly feeling like an intruder.
Bruno slipped effortlessly back into his professional demeanor. The tension on his face disappeared almost instantly—or perhaps it was simply hidden with practiced ease.
It was almost astonishing how naturally they could both slip into another version of themselves.
"You still haven't had any coffee?" Enid asked as she placed the cup beside his computer.
"Knowing you, I figured you'd probably skipped lunch too."
Bruno let out a small smile, one of the rare moments when he truly relaxed.
"I think you know me a little too well, darling."
"Someone has to," she replied naturally, straightening his tie with the tips of her fingers.
The gesture was quick, almost automatic, so intimate it seemed part of their everyday routine.
Sofia looked away, a silent knot tightening in her stomach.
Enid handed him the folder.
"The Foundation needs these signed before six."
"Of course."
She nodded.
Before stepping away, her eyes swept across the office. A subtle smile appeared when she noticed the couple's photograph sitting slightly crooked.
With gentle care, she straightened the frame.
"There."
She smiled at Bruno.
"You never notice these things."
"That's why I have you."
"Exactly, darling."
They exchanged a brief, effortless smile, one built over years of companionship and shared understanding.
Sofia watched the scene in complete silence, feeling strangely out of place, as though she had wandered into a space where she had never truly belonged.
It wasn't jealousy.
Nor was it anger.
It was the uncomfortable reminder that, in this office, she would always be a visitor, someone standing at the edge of the perfect life Bruno and Enid shared.
Sofia offered them both a polite smile.
For several seconds, no one spoke.
She walked toward the door.
"I need to finish a few reports... I'll see you both tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow, Sofia," Enid replied.
Just as her hand reached the doorknob, she felt Bruno's fingers gently brush against her forearm.
She turned to face him.
There was something different in his expression.
Less politician.
More human.
"Meet me here tonight."
She studied his face for a few moments.
"To finish this conversation?"
Bruno nodded.
"This time without interruptions."
She smiled.
A small, almost shy smile.
The first genuinely sincere one she had given that afternoon.
"All right."
When she left the office, she didn't look back.
Had she done so, she might have seen Bruno standing motionless before the window, lost in thoughts that even he seemed unable to untangle.
She didn't look back.
And she would never have another chance.
++
Several hours later, the building was nearly empty.
Sofia walked down the silent hallway toward Bruno's office. A faint smile crossed her lips when she noticed the light still glowing beneath the door—a quiet promise that he had waited for her.
She pushed the door open carefully, just enough to slip inside. The hinges let out a soft creak, muffled by the thick carpet covering the floor. The familiar woody scent lingered in the air, the same cologne Bruno had worn for years.
She smiled without realizing it.
"Bruno?"
No answer.
Strange.
Normally, he would answer before she had even finished saying his name.
"Bruno?"
Silence.
She took another step into the office.
The smile faded, replaced by an icy sensation creeping up her spine.
Bruno remained seated behind his desk, completely motionless, a dark statue in the dim light of the office.
"Bru... Bruno!"
She rushed toward him, her heart pounding violently against her ribs.
Her hand landed on his shoulder.
His body slumped slightly to one side.
Lifeless.
Cold.
Dead.
Sofia's scream echoed throughout the entire floor.
++*++
The Nevermore Homicide Department never truly knew silence.
Even on mornings that promised tranquility, the air was filled with a symphony of sounds—telephones ringing somewhere in the distance, the steady, almost hypnotic rhythm of keyboards, and the shuffle of detectives crossing the corridors carrying overstuffed case files, crime scene photographs, or cups of coffee that had long since gone cold.
The scent of aged paper, strong coffee, and the lingering dampness of rain permeated the building, becoming as much a part of its identity as the detectives themselves.
Yet, at one end of that organized chaos, there was an anomaly.
An island of absolute silence.
Wednesday Addams' desk.
No one dared occupy it. They didn't even touch the meticulously arranged files, each resting precisely where it belonged, as though they held secrets only she could decipher. Some whispered that it wasn't respect for her privacy that kept them away, but a quiet, almost superstitious fear of the aura surrounding her.
Wednesday looked up from the report she had been reviewing, the stillness of her corner interrupted by familiar footsteps.
The elegant click of Larissa Weems' heels announced her arrival long before she entered Wednesday's line of sight.
"I hope I'm not interrupting your thrilling reading about blood spatter patterns," Weems remarked, her voice laced with gentle sarcasm.
Wednesday closed the folder with a slow, deliberate motion.
"It wasn't that thrilling."
Weems arched an eyebrow, equal parts amused and resigned.
"What a shame. I thought murders were your favorite genre."
"They are."
The answer came with such effortless sincerity that it drew quiet laughter from the nearby detectives, who made little effort to hide their amusement.
Larissa merely smiled. She had expected that response.
"Congratulations, Addams."
She placed a file on Wednesday's desk, the muted sound of paper against wood barely audible.
"Your third serial killer captured in less than four years."
Wednesday glanced at the folder without opening it.
"Actually, my second."
Weems tilted her head, genuine curiosity replacing her sarcasm.
"The first one wasn't a serial killer."
"He killed three people."
"Over the course of fifteen years."
Wednesday rested her elbows on the desk, her posture relaxed though her eyes remained sharp.
"Statistically, he was simply a persistent murderer."
A brief silence settled over the room before it was shattered by loud, contagious laughter.
Agnes DeMille.
"That's exactly why I love working with you," Agnes said, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye.
Wednesday looked at her without changing expression.
"You should find a hobby."
Agnes' grin only widened, mischief dancing in her eyes.
"I did."
She discreetly pointed at Wednesday.
"You."
Ajax, who had been organizing crime scene photographs at the neighboring desk, shook his head with a smile.
"I still don't understand how you figured it out."
Wednesday turned toward him, her voice instinctively slipping into the detached, analytical tone she always adopted while discussing investigations.
"The victim was found yesterday at 6:42 a.m. on the north pier of Raven Lake."
Ajax nodded.
"The body looked like it had been dumped into the water."
"It looked that way," Wednesday corrected, placing subtle emphasis on the words.
"But it wasn't."
She picked up a photograph and laid it on the desk, the pale body stark against the dark wood.
"Samples collected from the fabric of her clothing were inconsistent with the estimated time she supposedly spent in the water."
Agnes recognized that expression immediately.
The spark in Wednesday's eyes always appeared whenever she was dismantling a complicated puzzle.
"The killer wanted us to believe she drowned," Wednesday continued, her voice as cold and logical as ever.
"But there was one detail."
She pointed to an almost imperceptible spot in the photograph.
"Her fingernails."
Ajax leaned closer.
"The nail polish?"
"The soil."
He frowned.
"Soil?"
"The victim had traces of red clay beneath her fingernails."
Wednesday placed another photograph on the desk, a close-up of the victim's hands.
"The pier has nothing but sand."
She laid a second image beside it—a map of the surrounding area.
"But three kilometers away there's an abandoned lot where the soil matches that exact composition."
Agnes smiled, admiration written plainly across her face.
"And that's where you found the killer."
"No," Wednesday replied with the same unsettling calm.
"I found his car."
She slid another photograph across the table, revealing a dust-covered vehicle.
"Fibers from the victim's coat were in the trunk."
Ajax's eyes widened.
"And he confessed?"
Wednesday shook her head.
"Psychopaths rarely confess when they believe they're smarter than the investigators."
"Then how..."
"I showed him the mistake he made."
"Which was?"
Wednesday allowed the silence to linger for several seconds.
Then she answered quietly.
"He took the victim somewhere she'd never been before."
Ajax frowned.
"That doesn't make any sense..."
"It does."
She opened another photograph, this one showing the victim's boots.
"Her boots were clean."
Another silence settled over the room.
This time Agnes smiled, already knowing the conclusion.
"Anyone who lived near that abandoned lot would've walked through mud."
Wednesday closed the folder, the sharp sound echoing through the office.
"She was carried."
Ajax stared at the photographs for several moments, processing everything.
Then he let out an incredulous laugh.
"You figured all that out because there wasn't any mud on her boots?"
Wednesday gave the slightest shrug.
"People lie."
Her eyes returned to the photographs, a dark glimmer in them.
"Evidence doesn't."
Larissa observed the exchange in silence, fascination and disbelief mingling in her expression.
She had watched Wednesday solve dozens of homicide cases, each more intricate than the last.
Yet the detective's extraordinary mind never failed to astonish her.
"Sometimes I wonder if you're actually human."
Wednesday tilted her head ever so slightly, a rare hint of humor surfacing.
"Don't insult me."
Before Weems could reply, the phone clipped to her belt vibrated sharply, the shrill sound cutting through the atmosphere.
She answered immediately.
As she listened, her expression changed.
The humor vanished, replaced by grim seriousness.
The few remaining smiles around the room disappeared with it.
She ended the call slowly, the final click sounding almost like an omen.
"We've got a homicide."
The entire department fell into a heavy silence.
Weems looked directly at Wednesday, the gravity of the situation reflected in her eyes.
"Blackthorn Holdings."
She picked up a tablet from a nearby desk, the incoming report glowing across the screen.
"The victim is Bruno Yuson."
Agnes' eyes widened.
"The mayoral candidate?"
Weems nodded, her voice solemn.
"Businessman."
She paused briefly, allowing the weight of her next words to settle over the room.
"Influential enough to make this the biggest case of the year."
Wednesday was already slipping on her coat, every movement precise and efficient.
"Who found the body?"
"His secretary."
Weems quickly checked the preliminary report on her tablet.
"Sofia Vasquez."
"Time of discovery?"
"Approximately nine o'clock tonight."
Wednesday pulled on her leather gloves with a crisp snap.
"Estimated time of death?"
"We don't know yet."
She headed for the exit, her slender silhouette disappearing into the hallway.
Agnes hurried after her.
"Hey! Wait for me!"
Wednesday never slowed her pace.
As they crossed the Homicide Department corridor, the flashing red lights from the garage reflected across the windows, bathing the walls in an ominous glow.
Outside, Nevermore remained the same indifferent city, oblivious to the tragedy unfolding behind its polished façade.
But beneath the shadow of those towering buildings...
A killer was hiding.
And Wednesday would find them.
She always did.
+++
The black sedan’s engine fell silent with an almost inaudible rattle in front of the imposing façade of the Blackthorn Holdings building.
Wednesday removed the keys from the ignition, the faint metallic jingle breaking the heavy silence of the location, while Agnes was already staring at the colossal glass skyscraper that dominated the entire block, a mixture of admiration and apprehension in her expression.
The mirrored façades, like enormous eyes turned toward the sky, reflected the cloudy gray atmosphere of Nevermore, transforming the building into a cold monolith of steel and glass. Even at that hour, dozens of floors still glittered with illuminated windows.
Agnes let out a quiet whistle, almost inaudible.
"Wow, I never get used to this place."
Wednesday closed the car door with a sharp click, her usual indifference coloring her voice.
"It's just a building."
Agnes laughed, a short, humorless sound.
"No. It's the building."
They began walking toward the main entrance, the air heavy with tension and anticipation.
They moved past police vehicles, whose flashing lights pulsed in a hypnotic rhythm, the ambulances waiting silently nearby, and the journalists who, like vultures, were beginning to gather behind the crime scene tape, their cameras and microphones ready to consume the tragedy.
"Blackthorn Holdings is practically an institution in Nevermore," Agnes continued, her voice taking on an informative tone.
Wednesday walked without slowing, her eyes scanning the surroundings with cold curiosity.
"Family business?"
Agnes adjusted the badge attached to her blazer, an almost automatic gesture.
"More or less. It was founded thirty years ago by Joshua Yuson and Murray Sinclair. The two of them started practically from nothing. Today, they manage one of the largest high-end investment and wealth management companies in the region. Although one of the original founders has passed away."
The automatic glass doors opened with a soft hiss, revealing a white marble lobby that stretched out like a frozen field.
"What happened to the founder?"
"Murray and his wife died in a car accident..."
Wednesday turned her eyes toward Agnes, a silent question in her expression.
"When?"
"Almost twenty years ago."
They crossed the vast lobby, the high ceilings transforming every conversation into a distant echo.
"Their daughter survived the accident."
"Enid Sinclair."
Wednesday's voice carried a faint thread of recognition.
Agnes smiled, surprise flashing in her eyes.
"You already read the report."
"No," Wednesday replied with the calm certainty of someone stating an undeniable fact. "You just mentioned the last name."
Agnes laughed again, a sound filled with a mixture of exasperation and admiration.
"Sometimes I forget who I'm working with."
They continued walking, their footsteps echoing against the polished marble.
"Enid was eight years old when she lost her parents. Joshua Yuson became her legal guardian. She practically grew up alongside Bruno."
Wednesday remained silent, absorbing the information.
"The families already had an agreement since they were children. When they became adults, the marriage happened."
"Arranged."
"Originally, yes." Agnes shrugged, a gesture of resignation. "But the newspapers always sold the story as some grand romance."
She discreetly pointed toward an enormous photograph hanging in the main hall, an image that seemed to scream perfection.
Bruno and Enid were inaugurating a new financial center, surrounded by politicians and businessmen, smiling at the cameras—a magazine-cover couple.
"They called them the golden couple."
Wednesday studied the photograph for several seconds, her dark eyes piercing through the surface of the image.
"Perfect relationships usually only exist for those watching from the outside."
Agnes gave her a curious look, amusement touching her lips.
"You're incredibly romantic."
Wednesday didn't even look at her.
"I'm incredibly realistic."
The elevator doors opened with a soft hum, revealing a scene of controlled chaos.
The top floor was filled with police officers, their voices muffled by the thick carpet. Technicians photographed every inch of the office, camera flashes illuminating the scene like silent lightning. Forensic experts marked evidence across the carpet with numbered cones, while officers kept curious employees away, those attempting to watch the investigation through the hallway, their faces pale with shock.
The familiar scent of chemical developers mixed with the sophisticated perfume that still lingered in the room—a strange juxtaposition of life and death.
Wednesday found the aroma strangely pleasant, almost calming.
Near the desk, Bianca Barclay, the medical examiner, finished her initial examination of the body.
As soon as she noticed Wednesday's arrival, she removed her latex gloves with a sharp snap, her eyes meeting the detective's.
"Punctual as always, Addams."
Wednesday approached, her steps firm and deliberate.
"What do we have?"
"Male. Twenty-five years old. No apparent signs of struggle."
Bianca carefully removed her protective glasses, her blue eyes fixed on Wednesday.
"At first glance, there are no clear indications of the cause of death. I need a more detailed analysis during the autopsy."
It was then that Wednesday noticed Bianca was not alone.
Standing beside her was a woman.
Her blonde hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, tinted with subtle shades of pink and blue that reflected the warm lighting of the office, like a miniature sunset.
She wore an impeccably tailored cream-colored suit, but the elegance seemed completely out of place beside the exhausted expression she carried.
Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her body, her fingers pressed so firmly together that the joints had lost their color, white as marble.
Despite that, her posture remained steady, almost proud, like someone refusing to collapse in front of strangers.
Wednesday noticed all of this before she even looked at her face.
And then their eyes met.
Blue.
Not merely light, but deep, like dark lakes beneath a winter sky.
There was a silent sadness there, a pain that seemed to have settled deep within her soul.
But there was something else too.
Something difficult to define.
Strength, perhaps.
Or vulnerability disguised as strength.
Wednesday remained still for a moment longer than she considered acceptable.
It was a detail.
Less than two seconds.
Yet it was enough time for her to realize she was staring at a stranger, a woman who had somehow disarmed her.
She looked away first, a small indication of her own disturbance.
Bianca discreetly observed the exchange before clearing her throat, breaking the spell.
"Detective..."
She gestured toward the woman.
"This is Enid Sinclair."
The blonde extended her hand, her movements calm and controlled despite the obvious tension.
"Enid Yuson... legally."
Her voice was soft and gentle, but carried a resonance Wednesday had not expected.
"I inherited the Sinclair surname from my parents, but after the marriage..."
She took a discreet breath before finishing, her voice almost a whisper.
"...I started signing Yuson."
Wednesday shook her hand.
Her skin was cold.
Not freezing, but cold like someone who had spent hours in an overly air-conditioned room.
Or like someone in shock, their soul frozen by tragedy.
"Detective Wednesday Addams."
Enid's blue eyes met hers again, an intensity Wednesday felt almost physically.
"From what I've been told..."
Enid paused briefly, her gaze locked with Wednesday's.
"...you're the best detective in Nevermore."
Wednesday slowly released her hand, the connection fading.
"That's what they say."
For some reason she couldn't explain, as she walked toward Bruno's body, those blue eyes remained engraved in her memory.
She didn't know why.
Not yet.
+++
Enid remained silent for several heavy seconds, as if the reality before her eyes was still struggling to settle within her mind.
Her eyes, blue like deep lakes, briefly shifted toward Bruno's lifeless body, still surrounded by forensic investigators, before returning to Wednesday. There was a mixture of pain and determination in her gaze.
She took a deep breath, the air seeming thick and cold inside her lungs.
"Detective Addams..."
Her voice, though quiet, was surprisingly steady and controlled.
"I truly don't want to interfere with your work."
As she spoke, her fingers tightened subtly against one another, an almost imperceptible gesture, but one Wednesday noticed.
It wasn't exaggerated nervousness.
It was the small habit of someone fighting to maintain control in the middle of chaos.
"Unfortunately..." she continued, the words seeming heavier than they should have, "...the company depends on me now."
She lowered her eyes for a moment, the pain becoming more visible.
"With Bruno's death..."
Her voice faltered for the first time, a thin thread of emotion breaking through the barrier of her composure.
"...I have officially become the president of Blackthorn Holdings."
The silence that followed was broken only by the distant click of a forensic photographer's camera, documenting the scene with clinical detachment.
A single tear escaped from the corner of Enid's eye, but she seemed unaware of it. Only when the drop reached the curve of her cheek did she raise her hand and wipe it away quickly, almost embarrassed by her own moment of vulnerability.
"I'm sorry..."
She smiled without conviction, a fragile smile that never reached her eyes.
"Today has been a day..."
She didn't finish the sentence, exhaustion evident in her voice.
Agnes took a small step forward, her face, usually so relaxed, now showing genuine compassion.
"I'm sorry for your loss..."
Enid simply nodded, the movement almost imperceptible.
"Thank you."
Wednesday watched everything in absolute silence, her eyes recording every detail: the upright posture, the controlled breathing, the shimmer in her eyes, the calculated pauses between one sentence and another.
Nothing seemed theatrical.
Nothing seemed excessive.
If this woman was pretending, she did so with an unusual, almost unsettling naturalness.
And yet...
Wednesday had learned many years ago that suffering and innocence could exist together.
Someone could cry.
And kill.
The two things were not incompatible.
"Mrs. Yuson."
Wednesday's voice was a thread of steel.
Enid turned her eyes toward her, giving her full attention.
"I will need to speak with you again."
Wednesday slowly removed a card from the inner pocket of her coat, the gesture precise and deliberate.
"This time at the station."
Enid accepted the card delicately, her movements calm.
"Naturally."
She placed it inside her purse before continuing, her voice slightly stronger.
"I will cooperate with absolutely everything that is necessary."
Her gaze involuntarily shifted toward Bruno for only a second, a flash of pain crossing her face.
Then she looked back at Wednesday, determination returning to her eyes.
"All I want..."
Her voice faltered again, emotion slipping through once more.
"...is for whoever is responsible for this to be found."
She paused, letting the sentence linger in the air.
"And answer for what they did."
Wednesday held her gaze, searching for something beneath the surface.
She found no hostility.
No desperation.
Only silent grief.
Or, at least, that was what her eyes seemed to convey.
"We will do everything we can."
Enid nodded discreetly, thanked her once more, and then walked away accompanied by an officer, her elegant figure disappearing down the hallway.
Wednesday remained watching her, even after she turned the corner, her gaze fixed on the empty space for several seconds, as if Enid's image still remained there.
Agnes noticed the prolonged stare.
"She seems..."
Wednesday answered before her partner could finish.
"Convincing."
Agnes frowned, uncertainty entering her voice.
"Do you think she's hiding something?"
"Everyone hides something."
Only then did Wednesday return her attention to the office.
The silence felt different now.
It wasn't merely the absence of sound.
It was the silence of an interrupted place, as if someone had paused life at precisely the wrong moment.
Bianca carefully removed her gloves when she noticed the detective approaching.
"What did you find?"
Wednesday asked, her eyes fixed on the body before her.
The medical examiner cast one final look at the victim before answering, her voice low.
"Very little, apparently. Exactly as I said before."
She knelt beside Bruno again.
"No gunshot wounds."
She lifted one of the victim's arms, the skin cold and pale.
"No defensive bruising."
She examined his hands, the fingers stiff.
"The nails are clean."
She slowly moved her flashlight along his neck.
"I also found no obvious signs of strangulation..."
Wednesday remained silent, her eyes focused on every detail.
Bianca continued.
"The body shows no significant external injuries."
She tilted the corpse's head slightly.
"But there is foam around his mouth."
Wednesday stepped closer.
The foam was already beginning to dry at the corners of his lips. There were small reddish marks on his tongue.
"He bit his own tongue," Wednesday commented, her voice analytical.
Bianca nodded.
"Probably during a seizure."
She paused.
"At first glance, someone might assume a massive heart attack or some other serious cardiac event."
She looked at Wednesday, skepticism shining in her eyes.
"But I don't like that explanation."
"Why?"
"The foam."
She pointed delicately.
"Seizures can happen in many situations."
She looked back at the body.
"Some natural."
A brief pause followed, heavy with implication.
"Others not so much."
Wednesday didn't answer.
She simply observed, her eyes slowly traveling over Bruno.
The watch remained fastened around his left wrist, a silent witness to time.
His shirt was perfectly aligned.
No torn buttons.
No wrinkles inconsistent with a struggle.
His shoes remained spotless.
Even the laces were still perfectly tied.
"He died exactly where he was," she said.
A cold, undeniable conclusion.
Bianca raised an eyebrow, agreeing.
"I agree."
Wednesday began walking through the office.
Slowly.
Without apparent destination, yet actually following an invisible pattern.
From the victim to the environment.
From the environment to the objects.
From the objects to what seemed out of place—the anomaly that would reveal the hidden truth.
She stopped before the small meeting table, her dark eyes slowly shifting between two crystal glasses.
One displayed faint traces of pink lipstick, a remnant of a woman's presence.
The other remained untouched.
Yet both held small trails of wine running down the inner walls of the crystal, as though the drink itself had wept over the abrupt interruption.
The open bottle rested precisely in the center of the table, a silent testimony to a conversation interrupted before the final toast.
She touched nothing.
She only observed.
For long seconds, the silence of the office seemed to tell a story of its own, a narrative that persisted even after every voice had fallen quiet.
It was curious how a room could continue narrating events, Wednesday thought, even after its occupants had left.
Wednesday shifted her attention back to the desk.
The contracts remained carefully organized, each page exactly where it belonged.
A pen rested on one of the documents, still missing the signature that would make it official.
The laptop was closed, a guarded secret.
No chair had been overturned.
No object was broken.
No signs of struggle.
Everything seemed...
Normal.
Too normal.
She looked back at Bruno.
The body remained collapsed beside the chair, an unmoving figure, as though life had simply abandoned him in the middle of an ordinary night at work.
But there were small inconsistencies.
Details that screamed to Wednesday's observant mind.
The foam on his lips.
The injured tongue.
The glasses of wine.
The absolute absence of resistance.
She slowly walked back to the desk.
The photograph of Bruno and Enid remained facing the president's chair.
The two smiled at the camera during a charity event, illuminated by photographers' flashes.
A portrait of stability carefully constructed for the public.
Wednesday returned it to the exact same position, an almost ritualistic gesture.
Then she looked back at Bianca.
"Apparently, everything in this room wants to convince us that he simply died."
Bianca crossed her arms, her expression serious.
"But?"
Wednesday let her gaze travel across the room one final time.
From the lifeless body, to the table, to the glasses, to the door.
As if reconstructing Bruno's final moments in her mind, each detail fitting into a macabre puzzle.
"Healthy men can suffer heart attacks," she began, her voice calm and thoughtful.
She paused briefly.
"And people can have seizures for countless reasons."
Her eyes returned to the body.
"But a man about to finish his workday doesn't open a bottle of wine for two people, receive a visitor, continue working on contracts, and suddenly die without anyone attempting to help him."
Bianca remained silent, absorbing the words.
Wednesday continued, now almost speaking through her own reasoning as the pieces connected in her mind.
"Whoever was with him didn't call an ambulance. Didn't ask for help. Didn't interrupt the scene."
She inhaled slowly, the heavy air of the office filling her lungs.
"They left."
The entire room seemed to hold its breath, the weight of the revelation settling over everyone.
Agnes looked from the desk to the body, understanding beginning to form.
"You think the person panicked?"
Wednesday shook her head.
Her answer came calm, precise, and cold as marble.
"No."
Her eyes fixed on the glasses.
"Whoever was here left knowing exactly that Bruno Yuson would never breathe again."
She pulled on her leather gloves, the soft sound of the material against her skin.
Her gaze returned to the two glasses.
"Two people drank wine in this room."
She turned toward Bianca.
"One walked out."
Then she looked back at the corpse, the truth undeniable in her eyes.
"The other never left."
The silence lasted only a moment, a brief span of time in which the gravity of the situation solidified.
Then Wednesday spoke with the same serenity she would use to describe the day's weather, her voice devoid of emotion but carrying absolute certainty.
"I have no doubts."
Her eyes remained fixed on Bruno.
A verdict.
"Bruno Yuson did not die."
She paused.
The impact of her words echoed through the room.
"Bruno Yuson was murdered."
At that moment, no one in the room dared disagree.
+++
The digital clock at the reception desk still displayed 6:15 a.m. when Wednesday pushed open the heavy glass door of the Nevermore Homicide Department.
The corridor, a tunnel of concrete and silence, remained almost empty. The ceiling lights were only partially illuminated, creating a play of shadows across the polished floor. The scent of freshly brewed coffee, a balm for exhausted souls, mixed with the faint smell of cleaning products used by the overnight staff—a fragrance announcing the beginning of a new day.
But to Wednesday, it was merely the continuation of the previous one.
It was far too early for any ordinary investigator.
For Wednesday, however, this was the hour when the city made the least noise, when the outside world became quiet enough to allow her mind to function with crystalline clarity.
And it was precisely in silence that her mind worked best, uncovering patterns and connections that others overlooked.
She greeted the officer at reception with a slight movement of her head, a nearly imperceptible gesture.
She didn't say a word.
She didn't need to.
After years of working there, everyone knew how to recognize that expression.
She was thinking.
And when Wednesday Addams was thinking, interrupting her was considered, unofficially, an occupational hazard—a violation of her concentration that few dared commit.
Her desk remained exactly as it had been left several hours earlier.
Or rather...
As it had never been left.
Because she hadn't even gone home.
Throughout the entire night, reports had been printed, photographs enlarged, preliminary findings compared, and statements reviewed countless times.
And yet...
Nothing.
No answers.
Only questions, weaving a complex web inside her mind.
She slowly removed her coat, hanging it over the chair with a precise movement, before turning her attention to the massive investigation board mounted on the wall.
The wooden surface was nearly invisible beneath a chaotic collage of photographs, maps, contracts, phone records, timelines, handwritten notes, and red strings connecting people, companies, and events, forming an intricate tapestry of information.
At the center...
Bruno Yuson.
Around him...
An entire city.
Wednesday approached slowly, the tip of her pen resting absentmindedly between her teeth as her eyes traveled across every photograph.
She didn't read names.
She read patterns.
That was how her mind worked.
While most people observed individuals, Wednesday observed relationships.
Who gained.
Who lost.
Who benefited.
Who lied.
Who repeatedly appeared where they should never have been.
She removed a photograph from the board—a businessman who had lost millions after a Blackthorn Holdings decision.
She placed it on the desk, dismissing him.
She picked up another.
A councilman whose political career had ended after an accusation made by Bruno.
Dismissed.
Then another.
A union leader.
A former financial director.
Two investors.
They all had motives.
Too many motives.
Wednesday returned to biting the cap of her pen absentmindedly.
Motives never impressed her.
Almost every homicide began with one.
The problem was that motives rarely explained a murder.
They only explained why someone wanted to kill.
Not how they managed to do it.
Nor why that specific moment.
Her gaze slowly returned to Bruno's photograph.
There was something about his death that continued to bother her.
A small sensation.
Persistent.
Like a forgotten word lingering on the tip of one's tongue.
She closed her eyes for several seconds, reconstructing the office in her mind...
The lighting.
The scent of wine.
The position of the chair.
The photograph of Bruno and Enid.
The two glasses.
The complete absence of disorder.
Then she opened her eyes again.
There.
That was it.
Bruno hadn't simply received someone.
He had received someone he did not distrust.
That detail eliminated half the city.
And brought the investigation dangerously close to the victim's inner circle.
That was when she heard familiar footsteps behind her.
Agnes entered carrying two cups of coffee, steam rising from them in delicate spirals.
She stopped beside Wednesday and followed her fixed gaze toward the board, understanding dawning on her face.
"You spent the entire night here, didn't you?"
Wednesday didn't answer immediately.
She continued observing a sequence of photographs, her mind working at incredible speed.
Only afterward did she extend her hand to receive the coffee, the warmth of the cup contrasting with the coldness of her thoughts.
"Yes."
Agnes let out a short laugh, a sound that broke the tension.
"One day I'll figure out whether you're made of caffeine or pure dissatisfaction."
Wednesday took a small sip, the bitterness of the coffee filling her mouth.
"Coffee is merely a catalyst."
Agnes smiled.
"Of course it is."
She turned toward her computer.
Throughout the morning, she had researched practically everything she could find about Bruno Yuson—companies, speeches, projects, campaigns, contracts, interviews.
The more she read, the larger his list of enemies seemed to become.
"It's impressive," she commented. "Half of Nevermore hated that man..."
Wednesday did not take her eyes away from the board.
"Half of Nevermore hated what he represented."
She paused briefly, emphasizing the crucial distinction.
"There is a difference."
Agnes raised an eyebrow.
"What difference?"
"The first feeling produces rebellion."
Wednesday removed two more photographs from the board, images of faces marked by anger.
"The second produces fanaticism."
She looked again at the red strings connecting businessmen, politicians, and employees.
Bruno had spent years defending less government regulation, tax incentives for major investors, and strong expansion of private enterprise.
He was admired by businessmen.
Criticized by unions.
Attacked by political opponents.
He had never lacked enemies.
But strangely...
None of that seemed to explain the bottle of wine.
The two glasses.
The peaceful environment.
The interrupted conversation.
Someone had entered that office as a guest.
Not as an intruder.
"My instinct tells me we're looking too far away."
Agnes lifted her head, surprise crossing her face.
"Far away?"
Wednesday nodded.
"We're looking for an enemy."
Her gaze returned to Bruno, the image of the dead man.
"When perhaps we should be looking for someone who would never be treated as one."
Before Agnes could respond, Ajax appeared quietly at the door, holding a folder.
"I hope I'm not interrupting..."
Wednesday finally stepped away from the board, her eyes fixed on Ajax.
"You are."
Ajax smiled, a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes.
"Then this news makes up for it."
He quickly checked the folder.
"Sofia Vasquez just arrived."
Agnes immediately looked up, curiosity sharpened.
"The secretary?"
Ajax nodded.
"She's waiting in interrogation room three."
The department was beginning to come alive around them.
Investigators arrived.
Phones rang.
Computers powered on.
But for Wednesday, all of it disappeared the moment she heard that name.
The last known person who had been with Bruno.
The woman who had found the body.
Perhaps...
The first truly important piece of the puzzle.
She carefully closed the case file, the muted sound of paper against paper.
She picked up her notebook, the pen cold between her fingers.
She put her coat back on, the dark fabric wrapping around her.
And she walked toward the interrogation rooms.
Without saying another word.
Because, for Wednesday Addams, a homicide investigation began long before the first question.
It began by observing who breathed differently when they heard the victim's name.
+++
The interrogation room remained silent, a vacuum of sound that amplified the discreet hum of the fluorescent light fixed to the ceiling and the faint ticking of the clock above the door.
The environment was cold and impersonal, the gray walls seeming to absorb any emotion before it could escape into words.
When Wednesday opened the door, she found Sofia exactly where she had been left—a figure curled up in the metal chair.
The woman looked completely different from the elegant secretary Wednesday had seen in the photographs earlier.
Her dark hair was loose and completely disheveled, falling messily around her face. Her makeup had disappeared beneath the traces of dried tears, and her eyes were swollen, reddened, and deeply exhausted, like those of someone who hadn't closed her eyes since the previous night.
The blouse she wore had small wrinkles around the cuffs, revealing the long night of anguish she had endured.
Wednesday allowed her eyes to slowly travel over Sofia, a methodical scan.
The hands.
The fingers.
The nails.
The posture.
Her legs remained crossed in a rigid manner, while her right thumb repeatedly rubbed the side of her index finger.
The movement was small, unconscious, repetitive.
Anxiety.
Perhaps fear.
Perhaps guilt.
It was still too early to decide.
Agnes entered right behind her, her presence a warm contrast to Wednesday's coldness.
Unlike her partner, she approached Sofia first, picked up a bottle of water from the counter, and poured a glass.
"I imagine it was a very difficult night," she said, her voice calm and without judgment, a balm against the tension in the room.
She gently pushed the glass toward Sofia.
"Drink some water."
Sofia took several seconds to react, her eyes fixed on the glass as though it were a foreign object.
She held it with both hands, which trembled slightly.
"Thank you..."
Her voice was barely a whisper, hoarse and fragile.
While Sofia drank a small sip, Wednesday calmly opened the case file, the sound of paper tearing through the silence.
She removed a photograph...
Bruno.
Still seated behind the desk, exactly as he had been found.
She placed the photograph on the table, slowly sliding it forward until it stopped in front of Sofia.
The reaction was immediate.
The secretary's eyes filled with tears again, and she turned her face away, unable to look at the image.
Wednesday spoke for the first time, her voice carrying neither harshness nor comfort.
Only objectivity.
"Tell me exactly how you found Bruno Yuson."
Sofia inhaled deeply, attempting to control the tremor in her voice.
"I..."
She stopped, closing her eyes for a moment, searching for strength.
"He asked me to review some contracts before this morning's meeting."
Her voice faltered between sentences, the pain evident.
"When I finished..."
She swallowed hard, her throat tightening.
"...I went to his office to return the documents."
Her hands tightened around the glass.
"The door was open."
A tear slowly rolled down her cheek, and she didn't even notice.
"I called his name..."
Her gaze remained fixed on the photograph, a silent torture.
"...but he didn't answer."
The silence returned to the room, heavy and oppressive.
"When I got closer..."
Her breathing quickened, panic resurfacing.
"...I saw that he..."
The sentence died before completion.
She covered her face with both hands, beginning to cry again, a muffled sob echoing against the cold walls.
Agnes waited several seconds before sliding a box of tissues across the table.
"Breathe."
Her voice remained calm, a safe harbor.
"No one here wants to hurt you."
Sofia wiped her face, trying to regain control, but it seemed impossible.
Agnes gave Wednesday a discreet glance.
Wednesday answered with a small nod.
It was her turn.
"Sofia..."
Wednesday spoke the woman's name for the first time, the sound unusual on her lips.
"I would like to ask a slightly more delicate question."
Sofia nodded silently, her eyes fixed on the table.
"What was your relationship with Mr. Yuson?"
The woman remained still.
Her gaze quickly met Wednesday's, a brief flash of something unreadable passing through it, before returning to the table.
The seconds seemed endless.
The ticking clock grew louder.
"You can trust us," Agnes said softly.
"The truth helps more than silence."
Sofia took a deep breath.
When she spoke again, her voice was barely a whisper, carrying the weight of a painful confession.
"I..."
Another pause.
A heavy sigh.
"I loved him."
The words seemed too heavy to be spoken, filled with guilt and regret.
"We became involved almost two years ago."
She began crying again, tears flowing freely.
"I never imagined that..."
She interrupted herself, covering her face once more.
"My God..."
She struggled to breathe.
"I never imagined everything would end like this."
Wednesday remained completely still, showing neither surprise nor judgment.
She simply observed, her mind processing the information.
An affair.
The last known person to see Bruno alive.
A woman.
The lipstick marks found on the wine glass.
Each new piece of information seemed to fit naturally with the evidence collected at the office.
Naturally...
Perhaps too naturally.
Wednesday knew that feeling.
It was precisely in those moments that she became even more suspicious.
When a puzzle seemed too simple, there were usually hidden pieces.
"Mrs. Vasquez..."
Her voice interrupted the silence, a thread of ice.
"Was Mr. Bruno planning to end this relationship?"
Sofia immediately raised her head, surprise evident in her eyes.
"No."
"You're certain?"
"Because he told me."
She wiped her eyes again.
"He said he was waiting for the right moment..."
"Moment for what?"
"To end the marriage."
Wednesday made a brief note, her expression unchanged.
She did not comment.
"On the night of his death," she continued. "Where exactly were you between six and eight p.m.?"
"In my office."
"Alone?"
"…Yes."
"No one can confirm that?"
Sofia lowered her head again, her voice almost inaudible.
"No..."
Wednesday wrote a few more words.
No expression on her face revealed what she was thinking.
"The company's cameras will confirm your statement."
"They will."
Sofia answered quickly, her voice slightly stronger.
"They'll show I was working."
She paused, then lifted her eyes, a new determination appearing in them.
"But you should investigate someone else."
Agnes raised an eyebrow slightly, curiosity sharpening.
"Who?"
"Enid."
The name remained suspended between the four walls of the room, an unexpected echo.
"Why?"
Sofia let out a small bitter laugh, devoid of humor.
"That marriage was a lie."
Wednesday did not interrupt.
She only watched.
"Bruno didn't love her."
"And how do you know that?"
"Because he told me."
The words now came quickly, a torrent of resentment.
"He was with Enid only because of the company. The shares. The campaign. The image they sold to Nevermore."
She took a deep breath.
"He said he was going to ask for a divorce."
"And why didn't he?"
"Because Enid would never accept losing everything!"
Wednesday remained silent for several seconds.
Not because she believed it.
Nor because she disbelieved it.
Simply because every hypothesis deserved to exist until confronted with facts.
She carefully wrote down Enid's name.
Beside it, she wrote only one word:
Verify.
Three soft knocks interrupted the silence.
Naomi opened the door slightly, only part of her face visible, her eyes fixed on Wednesday.
"Sorry to interrupt."
She looked directly at Wednesday.
"Bianca asked you to come to the lab."
"What happened?"
"The preliminary toxicology results from the wine are ready."
She paused briefly.
"And she also completed the first stage of the autopsy."
Wednesday slowly closed the file, the sound of paper muted.
She looked back at Sofia.
There were still many unanswered questions.
But at that moment, the evidence would speak before the people.
She stood.
"We'll continue this conversation."
Sofia simply nodded, holding the glass of water tightly between her hands, a fragile and exhausted figure.
As Wednesday left the room, one thought remained firm in her mind.
Sofia could be guilty.
Sofia could be innocent.
At that moment, both possibilities remained equally open.