I-SHIRLEY

In a city cloaked in fear, Special Agent Shirley, with her striking silver hair and ever-present red scarf, hunts a serial killer known only as 'The Angel of Death.' This elusive murderer leaves no trace, only a chilling signature: a heart removed, a phrase painted in blood, and an escalating brutality that now targets children. Shirley, herself a survivor of a childhood brush with death, possesses an uncanny ability to reconstruct crime scenes, a gift that borders on the supernatural. But as the lines between reality and the bizarre blur, and a new partner tests her limits, Shirley must confront not only the darkness within the city but also the unsettling secrets within herself. Is her unique gift a blessing or a terrifying link to the very evil she hunts?

I-SHIRLEY

In a city cloaked in fear, Special Agent Shirley, with her striking silver hair and ever-present red scarf, hunts a serial killer known only as 'The Angel of Death.' This elusive murderer leaves no trace, only a chilling signature: a heart removed, a phrase painted in blood, and an escalating brutality that now targets children. Shirley, herself a survivor of a childhood brush with death, possesses an uncanny ability to reconstruct crime scenes, a gift that borders on the supernatural. But as the lines between reality and the bizarre blur, and a new partner tests her limits, Shirley must confront not only the darkness within the city but also the unsettling secrets within herself. Is her unique gift a blessing or a terrifying link to the very evil she hunts?

The biting chill of the early morning hours seeped into Detective Ackermann's bones as he slumped onto the dusty deacon's bench. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets, his posture conveying a weariness that went beyond simple fatigue. The crime scene, a modest house bathed in the eerie glow of police lights, loomed behind him, a stark reminder of the atrocity that had just unfolded.

He groaned, a low, guttural sound that was swallowed by the quiet hum of the neighborhood. The familiar, soul-crushing despair of another Angel of Death victim weighed heavily on him. Running a hand through his already disheveled black hair, he pulled out his phone, his thumb racing through contacts until it landed on 'S.'

"Hello, Ackermann," a voice answered on the first ring, crisp and alert.

"How far away are you?" he rasped, his voice rough with exhaustion. "We need to turn off the flashers; it's still sleeping time for the neighborhood."

"Oh—I'm just around the corner," the voice replied, followed by an abrupt click as the call ended. Ackermann sighed, rubbing his eyes. It was two-fifteen in the morning. He hadn't slept a wink.

Just minutes later, Special Agent Shirley's Ford Mustang purred to a stop across the street. She emerged from the car with an almost ethereal grace, her silver hair catching the faint light, the familiar red scarf a splash of vibrant color against the muted dawn. "Sorry for the lateness," she sang, her voice surprisingly light. Then, with a quick glance at him, she added, "You look like shit."

He merely nodded, pushing himself off the bench. "I feel like shit...! Shall we?"

"I'm right behind you," she confirmed, falling into step beside him as they headed back towards the house, towards the latest horror left by the elusive Angel of Death.