After they returned to the police station,
the three of them sat in silence.
The scene from earlier that day still lingered vividly in their minds—the rotting body, the maggots, the stench of dried blood.
They weren't new to homicide cases, but this one felt different.
Too brutal. Like the work of a demon.
The afternoon's images were burned into their thoughts.
After a long silence, Jerome finally spoke.
"What do you think the killer's motive is this time?"
"Do you even need a motive?" Alfred scoffed, leaning back in his chair.
"Isn't it obvious? Some insane psychopath who takes his victims' organs—maybe to sell them, or just as trophies."
Karem, the quiet one, slowly shook his head.
"I don't think it's that simple. We can't just speculate without the forensic results."
"Exactly," Jerome replied calmly.
"All we can do now is wait for the forensic team to find something—something about the victim's background that might reveal the killer's motive."
After a few moments of thought, Jerome's expression turned serious.
He suddenly remembered something from criminal psychology—
the Crime Scene Return Syndrome.
Some killers come back to the crime scene to relive their sense of power over the victim.
Some return to observe the reaction of the public or the police.
And some… simply feel proud of what they've done.
Without wasting any time, Jerome removed his police uniform and began to prepare in disguise.
He was determined to return to the crime scene—to watch, to observe, and to see if the killer would come back.
Watching his colleague act strangely, Alfred frowned.
"What are you planning this time?"
"I'm going back to the scene," Jerome said calmly, buttoning his coat.
"Have you forgotten that Inspector David ordered us to stay here and wait for the reports? And now you want to go back?" Alfred raised an eyebrow.
Karem nodded silently in agreement.
"I know," Jerome replied, "but my intuition tells me the killer will return. According to the theory, it's likely."
"Fine," Alfred sighed, his tone flat. "But don't blame us when you get written up for this."
Ignoring the risk, Jerome made up his mind and left the station.
.....
By late afternoon, Jerome finally arrived back at the scene.
He wore a slightly worn gray coat.
The sea breeze blew from the side, carrying a faint salty scent.
He sat on a rusty iron bench by the roadside.
To his right stood the old warehouse, now surrounded by curious onlookers.
To his left stretched the open sea, shimmering under the fading sunlight.
From where he sat, Jerome could see the police tape newly placed that afternoon, and beyond it, faces filled with curiosity.
They came from everywhere—fishermen returning from the sea, fish vendors closing up early, and young people seeking a thrill.
Some whispered, guessing who the killer might be; others stared blankly toward the warehouse, as if waiting for something they couldn't name.
But among them, none stood out.
No guilty eyes. No nervous gestures.
Just curiosity mixed with a faint unease.
Jerome leaned back on the bench, scanning each face carefully.
"It's only been a few hours, and yet this place is already full of curious people," he muttered softly.
He exhaled, closing his eyes for a brief moment.
If the killer really has that syndrome... he should've returned by now, he thought.
But so far, there was no sign of anyone unusual.
"Hey, you bastard killer… you don't have that syndrome, huh? Makes it harder for me to find you," Jerome murmured with a faint smirk.
Should I keep watching? Maybe he hasn't come yet… or should I head back?
Ah, damn it. I'm already here. Might as well finish what I started. Even if I go back now, I'll still get reprimanded. So I'll see this through, he thought.
Jerome continued observing as the crowd shifted and changed, yet no one seemed suspicious enough to draw his attention.
People came and went too naturally—no one wore conspicuous clothing, hats, or masks.
As dusk deepened into night, Jerome finally decided to leave.
He stood up, turning to face the ocean and the setting sun.
After a moment of silent admiration, his gaze fell back to the bench he'd been sitting on.
His eyes widened.
There, beneath the left side of the bench, was a weathered card he hadn't noticed before.
He walked over and crouched down.
From his coat pocket, he took out a handkerchief and used it to lift the old card, laying it on the bench.
The edges were damp with evening dew.
On its surface, a young figure stood atop a hill, sword raised to the sky, eyes sharp as if challenging the storm ahead.
Behind him, clouds gathered—symbols of conflict and uncertainty.
At the bottom of the card were the words:
"Page of Swords."
Jerome froze. It felt as if ice water had been poured over his head.
He looked around—the crowd was still there, whispering, staring, snapping pictures.
No one seemed out of place.
Page of Swords.
A Minor Arcana card—not Major, he noted quickly.
Its general meaning: curiosity, sharp perception, intelligence, vigilance, quick thinking.
But in this context… perhaps someone observant, always seeking truth, skeptical of everything.
Jerome's expression hardened.
He had suspected the killer might return—but he never imagined the killer would leave a card instead.
As if the killer had anticipated that one of the detectives—one sharp enough to look beyond the scene itself—would come back.
And indeed, Jerome had.
He hadn't stared at the blood or the walls; he'd watched the world around the crime.
"Damn it… did he know I'd come back? But how?" Jerome whispered, his mind racing.
"Maybe this card isn't meant for me specifically," he muttered, "but for any detective observant enough to return."
He examined the card closely.
"It's clearly not placed today," he noted. "It must've been here for days. Maybe the killer left it after placing The Fool—a kind of... recognition, for whoever was sharp enough to find it."
Jerome wrapped the card carefully in his handkerchief and slipped it into his coat pocket.
Then, he turned and began walking back toward the station.
.....
Jerome's footsteps echoed softly along the station corridor.
The fluorescent lights above cast cold reflections on the worn tiles.
Outside, the sky was completely dark.
In his hand, he held the handkerchief tightly—inside it, the old card he found by the sea.
He hadn't had time to bag it properly; sunset had already fallen, and he knew Inspector David would be waiting.
The smell of the sea still clung to his coat.
Each step sounded faintly wet on the cold floor.
The dim lights along the hallway gave the whole place an eerie stillness.
When he entered the main investigation room, a few officers working late looked up briefly.
None spoke.
They all returned to their paperwork.
His two colleagues were gone—probably dismissed earlier.
Then, a deep voice broke the silence.
"Detective Jerome."
Jerome looked up.
At the far end of the room, Inspector David stood at his office door, eyes sharp and unreadable.
"Come to my office. Now."
Jerome sighed quietly.
He looked at the handkerchief in his hand, gripping it tighter—afraid to lose what he'd found.
He walked over and entered the inspector's office.
It wasn't large, but it was neat.
Through the glass wall, Jerome could see stacks of files on the desks outside.
David's desk was cleaner—just a lamp, a pile of reports, and a cup of coffee gone cold.
The inspector studied him silently for a few seconds.
"I heard you went back to the scene," David said, his voice heavy but calm.
"I told you to stay here and wait for the forensic report. Explain yourself, Jerome. What were you thinking?"
Jerome took a deep breath and explained his reasoning—the criminal psychology theory that killers sometimes return to the scene.
When he finished, Jerome placed the handkerchief on the desk and unfolded it, revealing the Page of Swords card.
He explained how he found it, its symbolism, and its possible meaning.
David was silent for a long moment, thinking.
"So that's why you went back? Because of that theory?"
"Yes, sir," Jerome replied, lowering his head.
"Do you think this is a game, Jerome?" David's tone hardened.
"If you act on your own again, I'll personally write your disciplinary report."
After a tense pause, the inspector sighed.
"But I'll admit—your instincts are sharp. Next time, report first before taking action."
"Yes, sir," Jerome replied firmly.
"Good. Go home for now. Your team will review the CCTV footage from the area tomorrow morning."
"Understood. Thank you, sir."
Despite the reprimand, Jerome felt relieved.
He'd disobeyed orders, but David hadn't punished him—just warned him.
He smiled faintly as he walked down the corridor toward the exit.
.....
The streetlights glowed faintly, casting a dull orange hue on the wet pavement.
Unlike his previous appearance, when he wore surgical attire, tonight Hendrik was dressed neatly.
A black suit. Black tie.
White shirt.
Black trousers.
Black shoes.
Black gloves.
His long bangs nearly covered his eyes, giving him a calm yet unreadable expression.
In his right hand, he carried three grocery bags.
In his left, he held a crumpled piece of paper, the letters barely legible under the dim light:
No. 47, Butterfly Street, Havenbay District.
He stared at the note for a while, then lifted his gaze toward the end of the street.
A two-story motel stood there, its sign flickering weakly, a few neon letters already dead.
Behind one of the windows, the faint light of a television flickered through worn curtains.
The night breeze carried the scent of salt and rust from the nearby sea.
Hendrik took a slow breath and slipped the paper into his coat pocket.
A faint smile crossed his face as he began walking toward the motel at the end of the street.