The rain in Amsterdam didn't just fall; it felt like cold needles against the skin.
Anyra stood on the edge of a high-end penthouse balcony, overlooking the Prinsengracht canal. Below, the murky water reflected the flickering streetlamps of the historic district. Inside the room, the air was heavy with the scent of expensive cologne and the silent, cold presence of death.
"Natural causes, Anyra. A clear-cut heart failure," Detective Van der Berg said, his heavy Dutch accent breaking the silence. He adjusted his trench coat, which was still dripping from the canal-side walk. "The man was Willem de Groot, sixty-five, a diamond tycoon. Found slumped over his mahogany desk. No signs of struggle, no broken windows, and the security system shows no breaches. It's a sad end, but a natural one."
Anyra didn't look at him. Her eyes were fixed on the victim. To the police, this was a closed case. To Anyra, a body was never just a body—it was a final testimony.
"If it was natural, Van der Berg, you wouldn't have called me from the lab at 2:00 AM," Anyra's voice was like a scalpel—sharp, precise, and devoid of warmth.
She knelt beside De Groot. She didn't see a billionaire; she saw a puzzle. Pulling out a high-intensity ultraviolet (UV) torch and a pair of precision magnifying lenses, she began her ritual.
"The dead don't lie," she whispered, her breath hitching slightly in the cold room. "They just wait for someone diligent enough to listen."
She scanned his neck. No bruising. She checked his fingernails for any struggle marks or skin DNA. Nothing. Then, she focused on his face. She spent nearly ten minutes just examining the corners of his eyes.
"What are you looking for, Anyra? A ghost?" Van der Berg asked, his voice echoing in the minimalist room.
Anyra didn't answer. With the grace of a surgeon, she gently tilted De Groot's head. Under the harsh UV light, right at the corner of the tear duct, a microscopic puncture appeared. It was smaller than a pinhead, perfectly hidden in the natural fold of the skin.
"Look," she commanded.
Van der Berg leaned in, squinting. "God... is that a needle mark? It's almost invisible."
"Not just a needle," Anyra stood up, her silhouette sharp against the window. "This is a Fine Murder. Someone injected a concentrated dose of Potassium Chloride directly into the tear duct. It triggers a massive cardiac arrest that looks identical to natural heart failure. No bruising, no external puncture on the skin, and the fluid mimics natural tears. Even a standard autopsy would miss it."
She looked around the room. The killer hadn't just committed a crime; they had performed an act of perfection. Not a single fingerprint on the crystal whiskey glass. No scuff marks on the plush white carpet. Even the air felt too clean.
"This person didn't break in," Anyra said, her eyes tracking a lone boat on the canal. "They were invited. They sat here, watched him die, and then cleaned the scene like an artist cleaning a canvas. They left us nothing because they know exactly how we work."
THE LABORATORY: 4:30 AM
Later that night, Anyra was in her element. The Forensic Science Institute was a fortress of glass and steel. She stood over the metal table where De Groot's body lay under bright surgical lights.
"You're obsessed, Anyra," a voice said from the doorway. It was Marcus, her senior lab assistant.
"Look at the heart tissue, Marcus," Anyra said, her eyes glued to the microscope. "The police see heart failure. But look at the cellular level. There is a faint discoloration—a pale blue tint in the myocardium that shouldn't be there."
Marcus peered through the lens. "Synthetic Potassium? But that dissipates in the blood almost instantly. How is it still there?"
"Because the killer is a genius," Anyra replied, a dark spark of excitement in her eyes. "They used a stabilized compound designed to stay in the system just long enough for me to find it. This wasn't a crime of greed. It was a demonstration. The killer is playing with the very tools we use to catch them."
She snapped off her latex gloves. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet lab.
"If they are this good," Marcus whispered, "how do we even start to find them?"
Anyra looked at her reflection in the dark window. Amsterdam was waking up, unaware of the predator in its midst.
"We don't look for what they left behind," Anyra said softly. "We look for what they took away. Perfection is their signature. And in my world, perfection is the biggest clue of all."