Rustle. Clatter.
The sound of paper against paper pulled Olivia out of half-sleep. Her hand twitched toward the desk before her mind even caught up. A sigh slipped through cracked lips — dry, tired, frayed from too many nights that bled into mornings.
"Three hours," she muttered, glancing at the clock. "Three hours of sleep. I should get a medal. Or a therapist."
Her chair scraped the floor as she stood, half-tripping over a pile of case files that had grown like weeds overnight. "Damn it! This is a pure mess ! " she hissed, steadying herself. Sheets fluttered across the floor — names, photos, autopsy notes.
The investigation board loomed across the dim-lit room, a battlefield of photos, red strings, and sticky notes. Every face there stared back at her silent, accusing. Names crossed out. Names circled. Victims who'd lost everything except a whisper of justice clinging to her walls.
"Good morning, Olivia," she mumbled to herself. "Welcome back to hell."
Dragging her feet to the kitchen, she rubbed her eyes, each step echoing in the quiet apartment.
Then she stopped.
The faint aroma hit first coffee. Not burnt. Not bitter. Not her usual desperate sludge that tasted like regret and overtime. This one was rich. Smooth. Almost... inviting.
"What the hell.. No ! It smells heavean .. what the heavean ?" she whispered, frowning. "Did I… really make this?"
The flask on the counter gleamed under the pale light. She picked it up, sniffed. No mistake this was fresh. Warm.
"I don't remember doing this." Her voice lowered to a mutter. "Maybe I'm finally losing it. Great. Sleep deprivation's turning me domestic No ! Lunatic"
Still, she poured it. One sip and her brows rose.
"Okay... wow, this tastes like pro level coffee , Which obviously means I didn't make it." She chuckled nervously, talking to no one. "I can barely boil water without burning it. What next, gourmet barista Olivia?"
Her eyes flicked toward the balcony the sliding door half-open, the early morning breeze sneaking through with a whisper. A chill brushed her neck. "Probably just forgot to lock it again, Oh god why do i have to forget these things .. " she muttered, carrying her mug outside.
The balcony plants were her only peace rows of small green lives clinging to their pots under her careful neglect. "At least you guys don't lie or file reports late," she muttered, grabbing the watering can.
Then she froze.
Nestled between her overgrown ferns was a rose.
A Rose Plant ?!.
Her heart skipped. "Wait… I don't own a rose plant."
It stood proud blood-red petals curled like velvet, dew glinting under the soft dawn light. Its stem was long, elegant... and armed with thorns.
"Who the—?" Olivia stepped closer, frowning. "This isn't funny, guys. Whoever's pulling pranks at five-thirty a.m. is getting punched."
She reached out, cautious, brushing a fingertip against a petal. It was soft. Too soft.
Then prick.
"Shit!" she hissed, jerking her hand back. A thin line of red welled on her wrist. The drop slid slowly, glimmering like a ruby before falling onto something white.
A folded paper.
Her breath hitched. It hadn't been there before.
She crouched, fingers trembling slightly as she picked it up. The paper was clean, expensive, the kind used for letters not the cheap printer stack on her desk.
For a heartbeat, she just stared at it. Then, slowly, she unfolded it.
Neat handwriting. Sharp strokes. The faint scent of cologne clung to the fibers dark, expensive, familiar in a way that made her stomach tighten.
"Stop chasing the lion, my little deer… this tiger is watching you."
The words bled through her chest like a whisper with teeth. Her pulse stumbled, then raced.
"Who the hell—" she muttered, scanning her balcony. No one. Her apartment building faced a narrow alley; the street below was empty except for a trash bin and a flickering light.
A chill crawled up her spine. She backed inside, the note clutched in her fist. "No one could've come in," she whispered. "No one."
Her gaze darted to the coffee again. Steam still rose from the mug.
The taste that had felt so perfect now lingered on her tongue like poison. She felt her throat tighten not from fear, but from realization.
Her hands shook. She grabbed the flask again, sniffed it. Beneath the sweet aroma was something faint, metallic chemical. She couldn't tell if her brain was making it up or if she was actually smelling it.
"What the hell does that mean?" she whispered, voice cracking. "My little deer'? What tiger?"
The early morning light spilled into the kitchen, painting long shadows across the tiles. The silence was so complete she could hear her own heartbeat. Somewhere below, a dog barked, then abruptly stopped.
Her hand hovered over her phone on the counter then dropped. Who would she even call? "Hey, someone made me great coffee and threatened me with poetry?" She almost laughed, but it came out hollow.
Olivia looked back at the note. Her own blood had smeared across the corner a dark fingerprint against the white.
Her breath trembled. The apartment felt smaller suddenly, every creak amplified, every corner darker.
She turned to shut the balcony door, locking it this time. Then she caught her reflection faintly in the glass pale, wide-eyed, her pulse visible at her neck.
"You're fine," she whispered to herself. "It's fine. You're fine."
But the coffee still steamed. The rose still stood, impossibly red. And deep down, she knew neither belonged here.
The tiger's message wasn't just a warning. It was a promise.
She wasn't the only one hunting anymore.
And whoever left that note… hadn't just found her.
They'd been here. Watching. Waiting.
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PLEASE SUPPORT PRETTY LADIES AND HANDSOME GENTLEMEN,
WITH CONFUSION ,
DETECTIVE OLIVIA.
WITH SMIRK BEHIND THE DARKNESS ,
CHRISTOPHER.