Rain dripped steadily onto the busy streets of Fitta, slicking the asphalt and blurring the glow of neon signs. From the doorway of the next shop, a radio crackled:

"Breaking news—Gérmalion Sauvez, national football star, declared dead today at 4 p.m. at Saubara District Hospital."

“Shoot… I’m late!” muttered Sirius, sprinting through the rain.

Saubara District Hospital.10 Am

“You’re late!” spat Detective and Head Inspector Kyrokuto, arms folded and eyes sharp.

“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed you were standing here with a stopwatch, counting my every step. Took me long enough to reach the 13th floor—the elevator’s about as stable as your sense of humor.”

Police tape stretched across the entrance, a small sign reading “Do Not Cross.” An officer nodded at Sirius as he stepped inside.

The room was chilly, the window tightly shut. Two small sofa-like chairs pressed against opposite walls, and a lone air conditioner in the corner—one of only five in the entire hospital—hummed quietly. The white floor was spotless, not a stain in sight.

A small bunch of yellow flowers sat on the bedside table, a neatly folded “Get Well Soon” card tucked between the petals.

The body lay as if in sleep.

Sirius’s eyes swept the room, taking in every detail;the chairs, the flowers, the floor, the hum of the air conditioner letting the quiet of the space settle around him.

“So… what is it? A vampire bite, or did a werewolf pick their lucky victim today?”

“None, actually. More like a tooth fairy who decided to take his breathing instead of his teeth,” Lihar, the senior detective, responded without looking up.

He adjusted his old, granny-like glasses, peering over them with a faint grin. “It might be brutally early to say, but this one… might be natural.”

Unlike Kyrokuto,surprisingly Sirius’s uncle at forty-five, Lihar was a year younger than him. Shorter in stature, with dark brown hair and pale yellowish skin, he was originally from Morocco. Quiet, yet with a deadly stare that people often misjudged him as a scarecrow, his silent passion seemed to radiate from him.

“No blood. No marks. No stab wounds. He… he just ran out of oxygen!” Lihar exclaimed.

“So… a heart attack?” Kyrokuto asked.

“Can’t say without the forensics,” Lihar admitted, shoulders tightening.

Kyrokuto stroked his chin thoughtfully, the slight beard tug betraying his impatience. “Where are the forensics?”

Sirius leaned back, that familiar smile tugging at his lips. “What’s next? Shall we wait for a Cinderella carriage too?”

A nearby police officer spoke up. “They’re on their way, sir, but it’ll take some time—they have to reach the 13th floor, the elevator’s out, and the traffic’s a nightmare with all this rain.”

“Ah, the perks of a countryside city… not quite the efficiency of a government-funded one there,” Kyrokuto commented.

Investigation room . 2 PM

After the forensic team completed their inspection of the body and all the evidence, Dr. Raz, head of the department, stepped forward. Calmly, he explained:

“The heart shows no signs of trauma—no hemorrhaging, no blockages, nothing indicative of a sudden attack. Death occurred due to the slow deprivation of oxygen to the heart, causing it to fail naturally over time.”

Sirius frowned, glancing at the mother’s screaming, tears streaming down her face. “Why are we announcing this in front of the suspects?”

Kyrokuto remained calm, his gaze steady.

“Because that’s the mother, Miss Sauvez Breha, and that’s the brother. The other suspects will be here as soon as we can get hold of them.”

“Why… why would I ever hurt my son? He was my treasure… my only joy! He’s gone… murdered!” she sobbed, shaking, her voice breaking. “Go… go and ask Wehan! That jealous player… he’s the one who did this!”

“Same old excuses,” Lihar said quietly, arms crossed. “Mother or father… it could be anyone.”

Zoro, case analyst, arrived slightly out of breath. “Sir, I have full information.”

He glanced at the team. “Giermalion Sauvez… twenty-seven years old, son of a common man who owns a convenience store. He has one brother; he is thirty-five and a doctor. His mother and father’s family live in the capital. Very traditional family. His father died of a brain aneurysm. Giermalion started training at twelve and played professionally by twenty. Single. Friendly.

“He was hospitalized for a month due to a leg injury and was scheduled to be released tomorrow. Now, we are investigating the team he currently plays for, Fitta. Several players are under scrutiny—including Wehan.”

“Ahh, he plays for our city. I went to see him myself—a very fine lad,” added Dr. Raz.

“Yoh! Grandpa likes football!” Sirius shouted, eyes wide as he glanced at the others.

“Never heard of that,” Lihar replied, raising an eyebrow, his tone dry.

Raz spoke calmly, as if stating an obvious fact. “Just the way I don’t play football, he doesn’t need an inhaler either.” Suddenly, Raz’s eyes flicked toward a tray nearby. “The inhaler… it was found—but it belongs to the patient on the second floor.”

Zoro flipped through his notes quickly. “Mechy Nara. Eighty-six years old, asthmatic, hospitalized due to chronic bronchitis.”

“Did she borrow the carpet from Aladdin to get to the 13th floor?” Sirius asked.

Zoro shook his head. “According to CCTV footage, she didn’t.”

The investigation room felt heavier than the rain outside. Each interrogation carried hidden grief and darker intentions, laid bare between questions and silences.

The first was Madame Sauvez Breha, the victim’s mother. She had last seen her son two days before his death, claiming she had been too busy at the family’s convenience store to visit him more often. When brought in, her sorrow turned quickly to rage; she called Wehan a murderer, insisting her son’s downfall had been sealed the moment he crossed paths with that player.

Next was the brother, Dr. Sauvez. Once a doctor in the same hospital, he had left three years ago to work in the capital. He had visited during the first week of the injury—on the first of August—but after that brief encounter, he returned to his life in the city. Yet, his relationship with his younger brother was well known, or so he claimed while sobbing: a bond closer to father and son than siblings.

Wehan, the team’s forward, had met Sauvez on the day of his death. He was the cause of Sauvez’s leg injury—though he claimed it was unintentional. He had always wanted to be captain, but the role went to Sauvez instead. CCTV footage showed him visiting the hospital three hours before the death, carrying flowers to wish Sauvez a recovery.

The team, each member had been away from Fitta, training in the capital. Not one of them had visited Sauvez during his hospital stay. CCTV checks confirmed their absence, and the coach himself had been with them the entire time.

With the first round of questioning done, the picture began to narrow. The teammates were cleared as well as his brother.

That left three shadows still looming over the case: the mother, who had visited her son only two days before his death and whose grief now spilled into rage; Wehan, the forward who had entered the hospital only three hours before the body was found—flowers in hand, but perhaps more on his mind; and lastly, Mechy Nara, the eighty-six-year-old patient whose inhaler had been discovered suspiciously near the victim’s bed. On paper, she seemed incapable of leaving her room—yet her inhaler had traveled where she could not.

Two days later 

 The reports came in. No fingerprints, no forced entry, the window locked tight.

“Scientific claim points to a possible heart attack,” Kyrokuto said, closing the file.

“So this one’s natural,” Lihar added, adjusting his glasses.

“Not quite..,” Sirius muttered, slithering toward the CCTV footage analysis.