The air in detective Clyde Luther's office was as heavy as the storm clouds blanketing the night sky. Rain tapped a restless rhythm against the fogged window, and the dim yellow glow of the desk lamp flickered gently, casting fleeting shadows across the room. Clyde sat behind his desk, leaning back in his worn leather chair. A pipe rested between his gloved fingers, its ember fading as curls of smoke drifted lazily toward the ceiling. His pale greenish gray eyes scanned the crumpled newspaper in his other hand, the headline glaring up at him: 'Another victim found in Black Hollow alley.'

He exhaled slowly, setting the paper down. Three victims, three murders, and still no face to pin the murders to. It was the same calling card. The same twisted precision. And no leads. His broad shoulders shifted beneath his trench coat as he adjusted his position, the leather creaking softly beneath him. His jaw tightened, the flicker of frustration concealed behind his carefully composed expression.

A knock at the door jolted him from his thoughts. He straightened, glancing briefly at the clock on the wall and set his pipe down in the ashtray. His deep, gruff voice broke the stillness, soft but commanding, "come in."

The door creaked open to reveal an officer, and he stepped inside, his blue uniform damp from the drizzle outside. Trailing behind him was a young woman, her appearance catching Clyde's attention immediately. Her posture was relaxed, her chin tilted slightly upward, and her eyes met Clyde's with an unexpected steadiness. No fear. No trembling hands or nervous glances.

"Detective Luther," the officer began, stepping into the room and gesturing to the woman. "This young lady came in to report that she was being followed earlier this evening. She described the figure as suspicious and given the nature of the recent killings, we thought it best to bring her straight to you."

Clyde leaned back slightly in his chair, studying the woman as she stepped further into the room. Despite the officer's words, she didn't seem particularly rattled. No tremble in her hands, no wide-eyed fear that he'd grown accustomed to seeing from witnesses in this case. If anything, she appeared.. composed. Too composed.

Still, he nodded to to the officer, a brief acknowledgment. "Thank you, officer," he said evenly. "That'll be all."

The officer hesitated, glancing between them before retreating, leaving the door to click softly shut behind him.

Clyde gestured to the chair opposite his desk. "Please, have a seat, miss," he said, his tone polite but firm, his eyes never leaving hers.

She moved with an ease that only deepened his curiosity, her heels clicking softly against the wooden floor before she settled into the chair. She crossed her legs, resting her hands neatly in her lap, and waited for him to speak first.

"Why don't you start from the beginning?" Clyde leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk, gloved hands clasped together. His voice was steady, deliberate, as though each word had been weighed and measured. "Tell me exactly what happened."

She began to recount her story, her voice smooth and measured. Her words painted a clear picture, a shadowy figure lingering on street corners, always at a distance, never speaking or approaching directly. But as she spoke, Clyde's mind worked faster than the details could settle. Her tone lacked the cracks of panic, the desperation for reassurance he'd come to expect. It sounded almost practiced.

He tilted his head slightly, watching her with the same cold calculation he reserved for suspects. When she finished, silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.

"Odd, isn't it?" Clyde said finally, his voice soft but laced with intent. "Most people followed by a figure like this.. well, they don't walk into my office so calm. So composed." He reached for his pipe, tapping the edge against the ashtray, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Forgive me for saying, miss, but you don't look like someone who's just been stalked by a murderer."