A few minutes earlier.
The cafeteria buzzed with the usual lunchtime noise—students talking loudly, trays clattering, chairs scraping across the polished floor. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting long rectangles of light across the crowded hall.
At one of the tables sat James, along with Jill, Alan, Tyler, and Rose.
Their trays were scattered across the table, half-eaten meals forgotten as the conversation drifted from topic to topic.
James leaned back slightly in his chair, listening.
"So you mean," he said calmly, "because he's poor… and his mother barely manages to pay the school fees… that's why they target him?"
Tyler shrugged, pushing a piece of bread around his plate.
"Well, we don't know for sure," he replied. "But yeah… that's probably the reason."
James nodded slowly, absorbing the answer.
For a moment he said nothing. Then he asked another question.
"Everyone calls him glasses," he said. "Why is that? What's his real name?"
Tyler blinked, realizing something.
"Oh… yeah," he said casually. "I never told you."
He leaned forward slightly.
"His real name is—"
The name left Tyler's lips.
And the moment it reached James's ears—
James froze.
His jaw dropped slightly.
For the briefest second, the calm mask on his face cracked.
Something in his expression shifted—like a sudden realization, a puzzle piece snapping perfectly into place.
It was the look of someone who had just discovered exactly what he needed to do next.
Then his expression returned to normal.
Present Time
Afternoon.
In a quiet house across the Hosel, Oliver sat comfortably on a sofa in his living room.
The television flickered in front of him, illuminating the dim room with shifting colors. An old film played quietly as Oliver watched with mild interest, a glass resting on the table beside him.
Then the telephone rang.
Oliver sighed softly and reached for it.
"Hello," he said. "Oliver speaking. Who's there?"
A cheerful voice answered immediately.
"Hey, Olly. Don't tell me you can't recognize my voice."
Oliver smirked faintly.
"What is it, Robert?"
Robert laughed on the other end.
"Oh, you got me," he said. "Well, anyway… remember a few days ago when you and Tom came for those body checkups? The brain scans?"
Oliver nodded instinctively, though Robert couldn't see him.
"Yeah. What about it?"
"Well," Robert continued, "the reports will be ready tomorrow."
Oliver frowned slightly.
"But tomorrow's Sunday," Robert added quickly. "My day off."
There was a short pause before Robert chuckled again.
"But come on—we're childhood friends. Just come over to my house tomorrow. You and Tom can collect the reports, and the three of us can have a drink together."
Oliver chuckled quietly.
"Fine. Alright. I'll tell Tom."
"Great," Robert said. "See you tomorrow."
The call ended.
Oliver placed the receiver back onto the cradle.
For a moment, the room returned to silence except for the television.
Then suddenly—
The landline rang again.
Oliver frowned and picked it up.
"Hello?"
"Oliver!" a voice burst through the receiver.
It was Tom.
"You won't believe this," Tom said breathlessly. "Just turn on the news."
Oliver straightened.
"Hold on," he said. "What's going on? Why do you sound so worked up?"
"Just watch the news."
Oliver grabbed the remote control and switched channels.
The screen flickered before settling on a news broadcast.
A reporter stood in front of a large building, flashing police lights illuminating the background.
The reporter spoke urgently.
"Breaking news from Bonn's most elite school, Ernst-Kalkuhl-Gymnasium. Three student homicides have been reported earlier today. The suspect is currently in police custody."
Oliver frowned slightly.
The reporter continued.
"At this moment, authorities have released limited information about the case. However, the name of the suspect has been confirmed as—"
The reporter paused briefly.
"Franzzle Smith."
The moment the name echoed through the television—
The telephone receiver slipped from Oliver's hand.
It hit the floor with a dull clatter.
Oliver's breathing became uneven.
His chest rose and fell rapidly as the name repeated itself inside his mind.
Franzzle.
Franzzle.
Franzzle.
After several seconds, he forced himself to bend down and pick up the receiver.
Tom's voice still echoed faintly from the other end.
"Oliver? Oliver, are you there?"
Oliver swallowed hard.
Then, with trembling breath, he spoke.
"We're going to Bonn," he said.
His voice was sharp now.
Urgent.
"Right now."
The words echoed in Oliver's mind.
Franzzle Smith.
For a moment the world around him seemed to blur.
His breathing grew uneven, and instinctively he closed his eyes.
Darkness swallowed everything.
⸻
When Oliver opened his eyes again, the world had changed.
He was lying on a bed.
A dim orange light filtered through the curtains of an unfamiliar room. The soft hum of distant traffic drifted in through the window.
For a few seconds, Oliver simply stared at the ceiling.
Confusion settled slowly in his mind.
He pushed himself up and looked around.
The room was strange—neither his house nor any place he remembered being before.
His eyes shifted to the clock hanging on the wall.
7:00 PM.
Oliver frowned.
Six hours had passed since his conversation with Tom.
Six hours that simply… didn't exist in his memory.
He tried to recall what had happened.
Nothing came.
A blank space.
But Oliver didn't panic.
Instead, he took a slow breath and forced himself to calm down.
He had lost track of time.
Either he had been unconscious… or something else had happened during those missing hours.
Something his mind refused to show him.
The door opened quietly.
Tom stepped into the room.
"Oh, you're awake," Tom said casually. "You should probably get some more rest. Today was exhausting."
He leaned against the doorway.
"But don't worry," he continued with a grin. "Tomorrow's our day. We still have to visit Robert's house too."
Oliver looked at him carefully.
"Tom," he said slowly, "what I'm about to ask might sound strange."
Tom raised an eyebrow.
"Where are we?"
Tom blinked.
Then he laughed.
"Come on, Oliver. Is that supposed to be a joke?"
He shook his head.
"We're in Bonn. We came here because of the Franzzle case."
Oliver said nothing.
Tom continued.
"And before you ask—yes, we thought the same thing at first. We thought it might be the same Franzzle from the Diable case."
He shrugged.
"But we ran background checks. Completely different person."
Oliver listened silently.
Tom kept explaining.
"He's older. The facial features don't match either. And the Franzzle we were chasing lived with Diable for two years."
He paused.
"This one has been living in his house the entire time. The only thing they share is the name."
Oliver absorbed every detail carefully, storing the information piece by piece.
"Anything unusual about him?" Oliver asked quietly.
Tom thought for a moment.
"Well…"
He rubbed his chin.
"The three kids he killed were his bullies. We found videos of them humiliating him—really ugly stuff."
Tom sighed.
"He couldn't report it either. Those kids have parents with political connections."
He shook his head.
"And the boy… Franzzle… he only has his mother. They're poor."
Tom spread his hands.
"Everything lines up. The pressure, the bullying, the humiliation. That's why he snapped."
Oliver looked up.
"That's it?"
Tom thought again.
Then suddenly snapped his fingers.
"Oh right. The weird part."
Oliver's eyes narrowed slightly.
"From the moment the police arrested him," Tom said slowly, "he's been repeating the same word over and over."
Tom tilted his head slightly.
"'God.'"
"God… God… God."
Tom shrugged.
"Honestly, he's probably lost his mind."
Oliver suddenly straightened.
"Wait…"
Tom looked at him.
Oliver spoke slowly, his thoughts racing.
"Maybe… it's not a coincidence."
Tom frowned.
"What do you mean?"
Oliver's voice grew quieter.
"Maybe it's a message."
Tom stared at him.
"A message?" he repeated. "What kind of message? And from who?"
Oliver rubbed his forehead.
"Maybe the one we've been searching for did this."
Tom's expression hardened.
"You're saying this whole thing was arranged?"
Oliver shook his head slowly.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But it feels like something more than coincidence."
He looked down at the floor, thinking intensely.
"What kind of message would this be…?"
Tom suddenly raised his voice.
"That's enough, Oliver."
Oliver didn't respond.
"No," Oliver muttered, still thinking. "There must be something here…"
"ENOUGH!"
Tom's shout cut through the room.
Oliver froze.
Silence fell between them.
Tom exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair.
"What's wrong with you?" he said more quietly. "You're usually the calm one. The smartest one in the room."
Oliver lowered his head.
Tom stepped closer.
"Look at me," he said softly. "We're friends."
Oliver lifted his eyes slightly.
Tom studied his face.
"Is this still about him?" Tom asked.
Oliver remained silent.
Tom continued.
"Is it about Yui's son?"
A long pause followed.
"That boy… Teufel."
Tom shook his head slowly.
"He's dead, Oliver."
His voice softened.
"You can't keep blaming yourself for that."
Tom sat down beside him.
"We both interrogated him. We both saw it. Something was wrong with that kid."
He sighed.
"I know you feel guilty about what happened to Yui."
Oliver's eyes began to glisten.
"But you can't blame yourself for what happened to her son."
Oliver finally spoke.
"That's not it, Tom."
Tom frowned.
"What do you mean?"
Oliver looked up slowly.
"When we interrogated him…"
His voice dropped.
"He was lying."
Tom blinked.
"Lying? About what?"
Oliver's expression grew distant.
"Everything."
He clenched his fists slightly.
"Every answer… every emotion… every reaction."
He swallowed.
"It was all fake."
Tom stared at him silently.
"I couldn't tell what he was hiding," Oliver continued. "But I knew he was hiding something."
His voice cracked slightly.
"I wanted more time to question him."
Oliver closed his eyes briefly.
"But the judge panicked."
Tom looked away.
"And then… it happened."
Oliver exhaled slowly.
"When I heard about his death," he said quietly, "I blamed myself."
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"I thought… maybe if I had pushed harder… I could have saved him."
Tom placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You don't have to carry that anymore, brother."
Oliver looked up.
The two men embraced briefly.
After a moment Tom pulled away and laughed.
"Look at us," he said. "Two thirty-five-year-old men hugging like this."
He shook his head.
"That sounds weird."
Oliver chuckled weakly.
"You little—"
And for the first time that day, both of them laughed.
The scene shifted.
Inside Aisha's mansion, the atmosphere was unusually quiet.
In a dimly lit bedroom, James lay on the bed, his eyes closed. Sitting beside him on a wooden chair was Aisha, her head slightly lowered as sleep slowly claimed her. One of her hands gently held James's hand, as if she feared he might disappear if she let go.
From somewhere deeper in the mansion, raised voices echoed through the hallways.
Samuel and Amy were arguing.
The echoes of their heated conversation bounced faintly off the marble walls.
Earlier that day, after the horrifying incident at the school, the police had arrived quickly. The campus had been shut down immediately. Students were sent home, and the entire institution was temporarily closed while authorities investigated the murders.
Samuel and Locke had rushed to the school to pick James up after hearing the news.
But when they arrived—
Chaos.
Police cars.
Teachers panicking.
Students crying.
Three bodies.
And now the argument had followed them all the way back home.
⸻
Back in the present moment.
James slowly opened his eyes.
He remained still for a few seconds, staring quietly at the ceiling.
Then he gently pulled his hand away from Aisha's grasp.
She didn't wake.
Her breathing remained slow and peaceful.
James slid out of the bed silently and walked toward the door.
He stepped into the hallway.
The argument downstairs became clearer.
⸻
In the living room, Samuel and Amy stood facing each other.
Amy's voice carried frustration.
"I told you," she said sharply. "Why don't you understand? There are too many coincidences. Something is wrong with him."
Samuel rubbed his forehead.
"Come on, Amy," he replied calmly. "I'm not a child. I know how to judge situations. And what you're saying is completely unreasonable."
Amy crossed her arms.
"It was his first day at school," she said. "And suddenly—boom. Three students are murdered."
Her eyes hardened.
"His story was already hard to believe."
Samuel shook his head.
"He wasn't the only one starting school today," he argued. "Other students had their first day too."
Amy didn't back down.
"But nothing like this has ever happened before," she insisted. "And the moment he arrives—this happens."
Samuel sighed.
"I did my research, Amy," he said firmly. "The boy who committed the murders was being bullied for a long time."
He paused before continuing.
"And I spoke to James's new friends. He was with them the entire day."
Amy hesitated.
"But still…" she muttered softly. "I just can't believe this is happening."
At that moment—
James entered the room.
Both Samuel and Amy turned toward him immediately, startled.
For a brief moment, neither of them spoke.
James broke the silence.
"He attacked me."
Samuel frowned.
"What?"
James spoke calmly.
"The boy who murdered those students," he said. "When he saw me, he ran toward me like an animal."
He paused slightly.
"But one of the teachers knocked him out before he could reach me."
James lowered his gaze slightly.
"Otherwise… I don't know what would have happened."
Samuel looked at Amy.
Then he gave a small, satisfied nod.
"Are you satisfied now?"
Amy didn't respond.
She simply lowered her head.
Samuel turned back to James and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Don't worry about it, buddy," he said with a light laugh. "It's not a big deal."
He smiled.
"Besides, you just got yourself some unexpected school holidays."
Samuel gestured toward the dining area.
"Come on. Let's eat something together."
James nodded quietly and followed him.
⸻
Elsewhere in the city.
Inside a quiet hotel room in Bonn, two men prepared to sleep.
Oliver and Tom had returned after a long day.
Tom stretched his arms before lying down on the bed.
"Don't stress yourself so much, okay?" he said. "You don't need to worry about everything."
He smirked.
"And remember, tomorrow we're supposed to drink with Robert."
Oliver grinned faintly.
"You should worry about yourself," he replied.
Tom chuckled.
The room lights were switched off.
Darkness settled across the room.
Oliver lay on the bed and closed his eyes.
Slowly…
His breathing steadied.
Sleep began to take hold.
Slowly.
Slowly.
Slowly.
⸻
Suddenly—
Oliver's eyes snapped open.
He was no longer in the hotel room.
Cold air brushed against his skin.
He stood in the middle of a forest.
Tall trees surrounded him, their dark silhouettes stretching endlessly into the night.
Oliver turned his head left.
Then right.
Confusion flooded his mind.
Where was he?
Then he looked down.
He wasn't wearing shoes.
Bare feet pressed against the cold soil beneath him.
Something else caught his attention.
His hand.
He was holding a knife.
The blade glistened faintly in the moonlight.
Blood covered it.
Oliver's pupils widened.
Slowly—almost fearfully—his gaze moved forward.
Something lay on the ground.
His expression crumbled.
A rabbit.
Its small body lay motionless in the dirt.
Deep stab wounds covered its stomach and neck.
Blood stained the grass around it.
Oliver's legs began to tremble.
He stumbled backward.
Then he collapsed onto the ground.
His breathing turned frantic.
His chest rose and fell violently.
He wanted to scream.
But no sound escaped his throat.
Several moments passed before he finally looked at his wristwatch.
The ticking of the second hand sounded unnaturally loud.
2:43 AM.
And in the cold silence of the forest—
Oliver realized he had no memory of how he got there.
The night swallowed the woods.
Chapter Ends
To be continued