Chapter 3: Trace #003 — What the Smile Hid
The paper from Room 304 lay inside a plastic evidence sleeve now, sealed and tagged. But I could still feel it through the layers—like the emotion was pressing through the plastic, watching me.
Rey didn't believe in any of it.
He stood a few feet away, arms crossed, eyes flicking between me and the corpse like he was trying to decide whether I belonged in this room or in a psych ward.
"You touched that paper," he said finally. "Then nearly passed out. And now you're saying this man smiled because he was afraid?"
I didn't answer right away. I could still feel the traces echoing in my chest, clawing to be understood. I focused instead on the man's hands. Folded too carefully, too deliberately. Almost posed.
"I'm saying," I replied slowly, "that he was made to smile."
Rey snorted. "The body has no signs of trauma. No drugs, no poison so far. No broken bones. This looks clean."
"Emotions aren't always clean," I said.
He raised an eyebrow. "You know they assigned me to keep an eye on you, right? Rookie with a record of hallucinating crime scenes doesn't sound like stable police material."
I didn't respond. I didn't need to defend my ability. Not to him. Not to anyone. The paper had spoken, even if Rey couldn't hear it.
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alright. Walk me through it. What exactly did you feel?"
"Terror," I said. "Resignation. Something was here. Not a person. Something... else."
Rey muttered, "Great," and jotted it down in his notebook. "Ghost killer. That'll look great in the report."
---
We finished processing the room in silence. He didn't press me further. But I could tell he was watching me more closely now. Not just as a babysitting job. He was trying to understand me—the way you'd study a strange tool you didn't ask for but might need.
Outside, the hallway was quiet. The other officers had cleared out, leaving just Rey and me in the aftermath.
"So what now?" he asked as we reached the stairwell.
"The paper wasn't just a message," I said. "It's a signature."
He paused mid-step. "You think this guy's killed before?"
"I don't think." I looked him dead in the eye. "I know."
Rey didn't laugh this time.
---
Back at HQ, we were assigned to a shared temporary desk. Rey groaned audibly. I didn't mind. The smell of stale coffee and humming fluorescents was weirdly comforting. It kept the dead emotions from clinging too tight.
I pulled up the file.
Room 304's victim was Makoto Jin, 47. Accountant. No criminal record. Lived alone. Neighbors said he was polite, punctual, boring.
Too boring to end up dead with a paper full of emotional residue strong enough to drown someone.
"There has to be a link," I muttered.
Rey sat down across from me, tapping a pen against his lip. "You said the killer left this same paper ten years ago. When your family..."
He didn't finish the sentence.
I didn't need him to.
"Same fold. Same texture. Same emotional signature," I said. "It's not just similar. It's the same."
"But that case was buried. Cold. Not even part of the SC Division until you were transferred in."
I stared at the screen.
"Maybe someone wants me to remember."
---
Rey stood and grabbed his coat. "Let's go. There's a trace lab open down near Sector B. I want the paper analyzed anyway. Even if it's just a prop, there might be fingerprints or fibers."
As we left the station, I could feel the shift again. Like eyes following us. Not people. Just presence.
Not all emotions disappear. Some linger.
Some follow.
---
The lab was small, underfunded, and smelled like glue and burnt toner. The tech scanned the paper without results. No fingerprints. No DNA. Nothing at all.
"This paper is chemically clean," the lab tech said. "Like it's never been touched."
Rey frowned. "But he picked it up, right?"
"It should at least have his prints," I added.
The tech shrugged. "It doesn't."
"What about ink? Watermarks? Anything?" Rey asked.
"Just blank."
He handed the plastic sleeve back.
I touched it again. Just briefly.
And this time, I felt something new.
Not fear. Not sorrow.
Laughter.
Low, mocking.
I pulled my hand away.
Rey noticed. "What did you feel?"
"He's not just killing them," I whispered. "He's enjoying it."
---
Outside, Rey lit a cigarette. He didn't offer me one. Just stared at the ground, thinking.
"I didn't ask for a partner," he said. "Especially not one who reads paper ghosts."
"I didn't ask for dead parents either," I replied.
He gave me a long look.
Then nodded.
"Fine. Temporary partner. Until this case is over. But if you start talking to furniture, I'm out."
"Deal."
---
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I laid the folded paper on my desk, staring at it.
No matter the lighting, it always seemed to cast a second shadow.
A whisper rose in my chest.
A memory, not mine.
> "Smile. Or it'll hurt more."
I didn't know if it came from the victim.
Or from the killer.
But I knew this:
This case was no longer just a lead.
It was a warning.
And I was the next intended reader.
---
To be continued...