As I sipped my coffee at the office, the familiar warmth spreading through me, I reached for Crime and Punishment—my go-to ritual for settling my thoughts. Its pages offered a strange blend of familiarity and intrigue, a quiet escape amidst the hum of deadlines and distant chatter.
It wasn't exactly the most cheerful way to kick off the day, but something about Raskolnikov's struggles and the stark contrast between his inner turmoil and the world around him calmed the restless knots in my mind. I let the words flow over me, savoring the quiet intensity, as if I were holding a mirror to my own thoughts. It was grounding, grounding in a way that made me feel alive, if a little detached from the world outside—just enough to face whatever lay ahead.
The steam rose from my coffee cup as I stared at the notepad before me, the usual quiet hum of the office droning on around me. I knew very well that the Christmas week had put a halt to my search—everyone too wrapped up in celebrations, too busy with their families and friends. I had been irritated ever since, the days stretching long, lonely and uneventful, consumed more by Cassandra's case than any holiday cheer.
I glanced up at the calendar on the wall behind me—28th December, 2003. The date stared back at me, mocking my solitude. It was maddening, the way everything seemed to slow down at this time of year, as if the world itself hit pause, leaving me alone in a maze that refused to yield answers. I clenched my jaw, the frustration bubbling beneath the surface.
I turned back to my notepad, the crisp pages stark against the dim office light. The novel I'd been reading lay forgotten beside me. My pen glided across the paper, scrawling down the few key pieces I had so far:
Noah Dawson
Catwoman – Kitty
Noah impregnated an unknown girl (a womanizer)
Jake Brooks (the current team leader)
Each name, each clue felt like another step forward, but it wasn't enough. It never was. I could feel the web tightening—perfectly woven, meticulously planned by someone. N. Someone had carefully crafted this loop, pulling strings I hadn't noticed until now.
My thoughts drifted, playing out the scene like a game of chess. Every move led to another, every decision tightening the noose around my investigation. I'd thought I was gaining ground, but now I saw clearly—I wasn't pulling out of this web. I was sinking deeper, into a mess far more intricate than I ever imagined.
I leaned back in my chair, taking another sip of my coffee, its bitterness grounding me. I needed clarity, and fast. The lines between truth and illusion blurred more with each passing moment. All I had were these fragments, these half-formed clues. It felt like I was chasing shadows, every lead leading to more questions.
Sherlock Holmes, I thought bitterly to myself. All I needed was a magnifying glass.
I was Sherlock, but without the brilliance. I had pieces, but no puzzle. No answers. Only questions. And every second that passed, it became clearer—I was trapped. Caught in something far bigger than I could have anticipated.
Sighing, I stared at my coffee, feeling its warmth seep through me, but it wasn't enough. The mystery burned hotter than the caffeine could soothe. And in the stillness of the office, with no one else around, I knew: this wasn't just a case anymore. This was something personal. Something darker. Something…perfectly crafted.
And I was right in the middle of it.
The only question that relentlessly spun in my mind was—who was she?
Was she the person the world painted her to be? The drop-dead gorgeous, seemingly innocent Cassandra Cottingham—the world-renowned eye surgeon with a reputation as pure as untouched glass? The kind of woman people admired from afar, the one everyone aspired to be?
Or was she something else entirely? A figure lurking in the shadows, a calculated predator—someone the tabloids avoided mentioning, someone whose face belonged behind bars.
Who was she?
And how many faces did she wear? How many lives had she touched with those deceptive eyes, each one wrapped in her charm and cunning? Was she the woman who could charm anyone into believing her innocence, or the cold, methodical killer whose crimes stretched far beyond what anyone dared to imagine?
Oh, who was she?
I had my doubts. My instincts screamed at me. My gut told me there was something off, something deeply wrong beneath her polished veneer—something dark and dangerous that couldn't be ignored. It wasn't just curiosity; it was certainty, wrapped in a feeling I couldn't shake.
I highly suspected her. Suspected her of being Catwoman—the figure whispered about in hushed circles, the one who moved silently between worlds, leaving no trace but death in her wake.
I didn't care what the world described her as. For me, she wasn't just some elegant surgeon or misunderstood genius. No, she was something far more sinister—a woman cloaked in mystery, with something broken deep inside. Something twisted.
My intuition told me she had done wrong. Something terribly wrong. A crime that went beyond simple manipulation—something dark and calculated, something that couldn't be dismissed. Not now. Not ever.
I couldn't ignore it. And I knew, deep down, that finding out who she really was would be the key to solving everything. But would I like the answer once I uncovered it?
This woman, suspected of carrying out gruesome acts-killing the innocent and collecting pieces of them as trophies-was now locked away in her cell, waiting for her trial. And yet, we couldn't move forward, not because we didn't have enough proof. The evidence was damning-the skulls, the disjointed skeletons, the jar of eyes-the grotesque souvenirs of her crimes.
If she had been anyone else-just another common criminal-she would have been hauled into court and handed a life sentence immediately. But not her. No, she was different.
There were forces at play. Higher-ups. People in positions of power who shielded her, who kept her name from trending, from the public's eyes. Even when someone dared to confront her, all she did was smile-a cold, calculated smile-never lifting a finger to defend herself, never breaking a sweat. Her full deeds were never fully revealed to the media. Instead, they spun stories around her-articles about her sophisticated style, the elegance in her movements, how she carried herself with grace.
It was a cruel irony, really. A world so easily distracted by beauty and appearance that it overlooked the darkness hidden beneath. The media- ever eager to prop her up-focused on her impeccable wardrobe, her carefully curated public image. It was laughable, almost, the way they portrayed her.
Even someone as reputable as Henry Delon-an influential figure, someone whose opinion carried weight-spoke in her favor. He sang her praises, painting her as something she wasn't, as if her charm and intellect alone were enough to excuse everything. And all the while, she didn't even have to blink. Didn't need to lift a finger. She sat there, calm and collected, as if she were untouchable-above it all.
It was as if the truth didn't matter. As if justice had been buried under layers of lies and influence. And I knew-deep down-I couldn't let it go. I couldn't just stand by and watch her slip through the cracks. She had done something wrong, something far worse than anyone realized. And I had to find a way to expose it. To unravel the layers and show the world the truth beneath her polished facade.
The door creaked open unexpectedly, and Samuel strolled in, his expression more relaxed than usual.
"Hoffman?," he called out, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"What a surprise?," I replied, glancing up from my notes, my voice laced with mild amusement. "Not feeling Christmasy?"
Samuel shrugged, his easy grin widening. "Yeah... it was homely. Too much cheer, too much sentiment. Not my thing."
I leaned back slightly, eyeing him with a raised eyebrow. "Saw you in that vintage gingham coat with the weird bow tie. You looked rather tamed."
He chuckled, running a hand through his messy hair. "Tamed? Please. That was a momentary lapse. Just trying to humor the crowd for once." His eyes flicked around the office, settling on my desk strewn with notes. "You're knee-deep in this again, huh? The Cottingham case?"
"Always." I glanced back down at my notepad, the weight of the investigation pressing heavily on me. "Even during the holidays, she lingers in my mind."
Samuel stepped closer, his tone dropping into something quieter, more serious. "You think she's different from what everyone else sees. Don't you?"
I looked up at him, meeting his gaze. "It's not just what I see—it's what I feel. Something about her... isn't right. Too smooth, too calculated. And no matter how much they try to cover it up, the pieces don't add up."
He nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "Everyone's too busy admiring her, praising her, even protecting her. But you've got a different angle. You're not buying it."
"No," I said firmly. "I don't care what the media or Delon say. She's hiding something—something dark. And she's smart enough to keep it under wraps, using charm and influence to divert attention."
Samuel crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. "You think she's more dangerous than anyone suspects."
"Far more," I said, my voice dropping to a low murmur. "And she knows exactly how to play the game. She's clever enough to make it seem like she's above it all—like she's untouchable."
Samuel's gaze lingered on me, a mix of respect and understanding flashing in his eyes. "Then we'll get to the truth. One way or another."
I smirked slightly, shaking my head. "As long as she keeps making mistakes. And believe me, she will."
"Let's hope we're ready when that happens."
"Always."