That afternoon, Joss’s entire team, along with Gawin, arrived at the old apartment building where the victim had been found.

The hallway was narrow and dark, the musty smell mixing with the tang of rust from the peeling railings.

Outside the room, the police seal was still intact.

Joss tore through the tape and pushed the door open.

Pale light filtered through a dust-covered window, falling across a small room that looked nearly abandoned.

Yellow evidence tape still circled a wooden chair where the victim had once been tied up. On the floor, several patches of blood had dried to a dark brown.

Gawin didn’t step straight in. Instead, he stood at the threshold, his eyes sweeping across the space as though scanning each point one by one.

He inhaled lightly, then spoke quietly, but loud enough for everyone to hear:

- There’s an ethanol smell, but not from recently used medical alcohol. This is the evaporated scent of preservation fluid. Someone wiped something clean here, and not to hide bloodstains.

He moved toward the corner, kneeling in front of a thin scratch on the wooden floor.

- This mark is fresh and runs parallel to the wood grain. Someone dragged a rectangular object heavy enough to leave an imprint out of here. Could be a storage container.

Rin frowned.

- But the crime scene report didn’t mention anything being moved.

Gawin glanced over.

- That’s because you searched based on memory, not logic. If the killer removed the object before the body was found, the police would’ve seen the room as "intact" - when in fact it had already been partially cleaned out.

He walked over to the wall, where the words "Don’t let it happen again" were scrawled, and brushed his fingertips lightly against the surface before lowering his voice:

- This wasn’t written directly in blood. It was smeared on with a piece of cloth, from a different blood source, then shaped into letters. And the writer stood to the left of the room, not facing it head-on like you assumed. Which means…

He paused, looking at Joss.

- …the killer wanted to control the way you perceived the scene, like setting a stage.

Tommy crossed his arms.

- You talk like you’ve met him.

Gawin gave a faint smile, though a sharp glint flashed in his eyes.

- I haven’t. But he’s inviting me to watch his next performance. And trust me, he won’t be disappointed in me.

Joss studied Gawin for a long moment before turning to the team:

- You all heard him? Write down every detail he just mentioned.

Back at the station, Gawin returned with a stack of crime scene photos under his arm. He closed the meeting room door and spread four sets of images out on the table, arranging them like puzzle pieces.

He grew serious, his fingers moving over the photos, case A, B, C, D, placing them in an order only he seemed to understand.

Case A, Gawin explained, had been handled with precision: the body was positioned neatly, clothing undisturbed, bindings tied evenly, no scratch marks on the neck, clear signs the victim hadn’t struggled; the paper stuffed in the mouth was a neatly cut slip from a form, folded precisely, and there was a faint lipstick mark on the collar, like the trace of a recent intimate meeting.

Looking closely, he noticed a round burn mark on the victim’s left finger, identical to one in a photo from case B, but in case A it was sharp and deliberate, while in later cases it was smudged, blood splattered, and the room in disarray.

Cases B, C, and D were completely different: writing on the walls was hurried and shaky; items were yanked around; footprints on the balcony didn’t match; some bloodstains had been wiped, leaving thin traces, proof someone had tried to cover up.

Gawin pointed out details the team had missed: a tiny yellow paint fleck on a chair leg, a strand of silk thread caught under a nail, fine powdery dirt from shoes entering in a specific direction.

Piecing them together, he formed a narrative: the killer in case A had time, tools, and familiarity with the victim, he knew how to make everything "beautiful" to send a message.

The later cases, he said, were rushed, perhaps interrupted, or the work of an imitator who didn’t have the same meticulous skill, hence the clumsy mistakes.

Folding his hands, his face expressionless but his tone cold, Gawin said:

- The first case involved a special connection between the killer and the victim, not just because of the politeness in the setup, but because of signs of closeness that only someone familiar, someone who had spent time with them, could leave. The rest are the result of emotion or haste; the perpetrator left too many traces because they weren’t in control.”

He exhaled, stacked the photos neatly, and turned to the team:

- Start by expanding the first victim’s circle of acquaintances. That’s probably the key.

Leaning over the table under the yellow glow of the lamp, Gawin’s face seemed sharper, colder.

He picked up the first victim’s photo, tilting it slightly, then froze.

His fingertip touched the faint lipstick mark on the inside edge of the collar, not where a woman’s lips would usually leave it, but where two men kissing at close range might.

- Do you see this?

His voice was low but clear as he pointed to an enlarged image.

- He seems to be gay. And another thing: the second button from the top is fastened through the wrong hole, meaning someone hurriedly put the shirt back on him before he died. That kind of haste… doesn’t match a typical torture scene. And if he were ‘straight,’ in this case he would’ve buttoned it himself, misaligned like this… so it’s probably…

He pulled out the photo of the form that had been stuffed into the victim’s mouth.

Under a magnifying glass, the signature had been cut off, but Gawin pointed at the text:

- This is a resignation letter, but the reason given is strange: personal reorientation. That’s vague, and I’m certain in this case it’s not just about work. If the killer chose to shove this letter into his mouth, it means he wanted to silence a truth, a truth about identity or sexual orientation.

The room went quiet. Joss crossed his arms, eyes narrowing slightly, while Tommy and Rin exchanged startled looks.

Gawin leaned back, speaking evenly:

- The victim didn’t just know the killer. They had a very close personal relationship.

Knot sat hunched over his keyboard, fingers flying as data windows opened and closed in rapid succession.

Finally, a personal file popped up. He frowned, reading carefully.

- Joss, I think I’ve found someone worth talking to.

He wheeled his chair to the central table, turning the screen toward the others.

On it was a photo of a man in his thirties, neatly trimmed beard, eyes sharp and slightly menacing.

Below the name: John Rattakorn, current owner of Midnight Blue bar in the Ratchathewi district. But the past was what caught their attention: former forensic officer with the Bangkok Police Department, dismissed five years ago for violent conduct toward a colleague.

Tommy gave a low whistle.

- A former forensic guy running a bar. Not your average type.

They decided to check it out immediately.

When Tommy and Knot arrived at the bar’s address, the door was chained shut, the sign faded, dust coating the steps.

A neighbor said it had been closed for over two weeks, and no one knew where the owner had gone.

Undeterred, they traced former staff and found a female ex-employee’s apartment in a modest residential block, dim yellow light leaking from the door crack.

She was wary at first, but after seeing their badges, her expression softened.

- Yes… I knew John and the man in this picture.

Her hands trembled as she held the first victim’s photo.

- They… were involved. Not just friends. John often brought him to the bar, and… I think they were dating, but keeping it quiet.

Knot and Tommy exchanged a look, they’d just opened up a whole new angle.

For the next three days, Joss’s team chased leads in vain.

John had vanished without a trace, every address linked to him was empty, his phone disconnected, social media silent.

Knot had scoured the databases, finding only scraps: a fuel receipt from a station on the outskirts, and a blurry CCTV shot of a figure in a baseball cap.

Gawin sat cross-legged in his chair, spinning a pen, eyes fixed on the map pinned to the wall.

John, a former forensic officer, knew every blind spot in the city’s camera network. But he also had a fixed habit, always choosing locations with dual escape routes.

- Look at his appearances, connect the points and you’ll see where he is.

Gawin traced an arc on the map, the final red dot landing on an abandoned warehouse near the highway.

They moved in immediately.

Inside, they found John packing a bag, ready to mount his motorcycle. Caught off guard, he tossed the bag and ran for the side door, straight into someone stepping out: Gawin.

It happened in an instant. John swung to shove him, but Gawin sidestepped, locked his arm, and twisted sharply, slamming him to the concrete.

The sound echoed, freezing the others in place, while John lay pinned, face to the floor.

Back at the station, John laughed scornfully as he confessed to killing the first victim just to show "those stupid cops" what a perfect crime scene looked like.

He hated the police for firing him, and choosing his lover as the victim was both revenge and a work of art. When asked about the other three cases, he only smirked:

- Not me. Someone’s using my name to mess with you.

Gawin didn’t argue.

After the interrogation, he laid out a quick plan: leak to the media that the police had recovered special evidence from the first case, and set traps at locations where the copycat might try to check or destroy it.

They spread the news that the serial killer had been caught, to flush out the imitator.

Then they announced he’d face execution, to bait the copycat, someone who idolized him, into trying to help him escape.

Three days later, exactly as predicted, the copycat appeared at one of the trap sites and was taken down by the homicide unit.

Gawin’s first case closed cleanly, leaving a lasting impression of the young consultant: razor-sharp, daring, and… dangerous in his own distinct way.