CHAPTER 2: THE FIRST VICTIM

The early morning sun cast a muffled gleam over the crime location as Lila and Criminal investigator Imprint Dawson got back to the rear entryway where Alan Grayson had been seen as killed. Police tape shuddered in the delicate breeze, denoting the limits of their examination. Lila's brain hustled with the occasions of the earlier evening — the images cut into Alan's chest, the old blade, and the shocking inclination that this case was about something other than murder.

They moved toward the criminological group, who were carefully archiving everything about the scene. Mark gestured to the lead legal specialist, who motioned them closer. Lila's look cleared over the rear entryway, taking in the spray painting tossed walls and the weak smell of rot blended in with city grime.

"Any new turns of events?" Lila asked, her voice consistent in spite of the anxiety troubling her.

The expert, a young lady with dim hair maneuvered into a tight bun, changed her glasses prior to answering. "We've accumulated more proof, however nothing authoritative yet. The images on the casualty's chest have all the earmarks of being antiquated in beginning, conceivably connected to some type of formal practice."

Yet again lila hunched close to Alan's body, concentrating on the complicated carvings. They appeared to beat with a weak energy, sending a chill down her spine. She brushed her fingers delicately over the markings, cautious not to upset the criminological work.

"Any word on the blade?" she asked, looking towards where it had been found.

The professional shook her head. "Not yet. We're actually running tests, yet all the same it's most certainly old. Like, extremely old."

Mark ventured forward, his temple wrinkled in thought. "And witnesses? Any other person approach?"

The expert delayed, trading a look with her partner prior to replying. "There was one observer. A vagrant who claims he saw a shadowy figure sneaking in the back street before the homicide. He's being evaluated now, yet up until this point, nothing concrete."

Lila stood up, her brain hustling with potential outcomes. The images, the old blade, and presently a strange figure — all highlighted a conscious and conceivably heavenly intention. She wanted more data, more signs to sort out the riddle.

"We should converse with the observer," she expressed, going to Check. "Perhaps he saw something that can help us."

They advanced toward the shoddy meeting region, a little tent set up away from the fundamental crime location. Inside, a rumpled man in battered garments sat slouched over some tepid espresso. His eyes enlarged as Lila and Imprint drew nearer, their identifications noticeable on their coats.

"Mr. Jenkins," Imprint started, taking a seat. "I'm Investigator Dawson, and this is Analyst Lila. We might want to pose you a couple of inquiries about what you saw the previous evening."

The man, whose endured face talked about years spent in the city, gestured gradually. "I was sleepin' in the rear entryway, similar to I generally do. Heard some commotion, gazed upward and saw him — dull figure, movin' quick. Didn't see no face, simply shadows."

Lila inclined forward, her voice quiet and consoling. "Did you hear anything? Any words, perhaps?"

Mr. Jenkins scratched his unkempt facial hair, considering every option. "Couldn't hear a lot over the garbage bins bangin'. However, I heard a somewhat chantin'. Like... whisperin' in the breeze."

Lila traded a look with Imprint. "Reciting," she mumbled, her brain hustling. "Might you at any point tell where the figure went?"

Mr. Jenkins shook his head. "Evaporated immediately and inexplicably, similar to a phantom. Ain't never seen nothin' like it."

"Much obliged to you, Mr. Jenkins," Imprint said, tapping the man's shoulder tenderly. "You've been a major assistance. Here is my card. In the event that you recollect that whatever else, anything by any stretch of the imagination, call me."

Mr. Jenkins gestured, grasping the card firmly. As they left the tent, Lila went to Stamp, her considerations turning. "Reciting and a shadowy figure. It sounds nearly... formal."

Mark murmured, running a hand through his hair. "You think this is a faction thing of some sort or another? Penances?"

"It's conceivable," Lila answered, her psyche dashing through old texts and fables she had concentrated on throughout the long term. "The images, the reciting — everything focuses to something antiquated, something basic."

Back at the area, Lila withdrew to her lab, the antiquated knife spread out on the assessment table. She painstakingly eliminated it from its proof pack, concentrating on the multifaceted carvings with a combination of interest and fear. The images matched those on Alan's chest, validating her premonitions.

She went through hours cross-referring to the images with her broad assortment of vampire legend and authentic texts. Yet again at long last, as the sun set, she tracked down a match — a reference to a failed to remember group of vampires known as the Obsidian Request. They were supposed to have rehearsed dim customs including human forfeits, their thought processes covered in secret and dread.

Lila reclined in her seat, scouring her sanctuaries. Assuming the Obsidian Request had reemerged, it implied inconvenience. They were known for their obsession and savage quest for power. However, why now? What's more, why focus on a vampire rights advocate?

Her considerations were interfered with by a delicate thump on the entryway. Mark remained in the entryway, a concerned demeanor all over. "Lila, you've been in here day in and day out. Any advancement?"

She gestured, motioning for him to enter. "I tracked down something. The images on the blade — they have a place with a vampire group called the Obsidian Request. They're old, strong, and risky."

Imprint's forehead wrinkled. "You believe they're behind this?"

"It's beginning to look that way," Lila answered, her voice grave. "However, why? What do they acquire from killing a rights advocate?"

Mark paced the room, his psyche managing the potential outcomes. "Perhaps it's a message. An admonition to other people. Or on the other hand perhaps they're attempting to begin something — a conflict, perhaps."

"It's conceivable," Lila mumbled, her considerations obscuring. "Be that as it may, we want more data. We really want to figure out who's behind this, why they're focusing on vampire advocates."

Mark gestured, assurance solidifying his highlights. "Then how about we get to function. We'll begin by following the blade, check whether we can track down any leads."

They worked really hard into the evening, poring over proof and circling back to leads. When they at last left the region, the city was washed in the delicate sparkle of streetlamps, shadows moving in the rear entryways like murmurs of the past.

As Lila drove home, her psyche dashed with the occasions of the day. The Obsidian Request — they were a danger dissimilar to any she had looked previously. Also, on the off chance that they were back, it implied she was in more peril than any other time in recent memory.

In any case, she was unable to bear to withdraw. Not at the present time. Alan Grayson's passing was only the start, and not entirely settled to reveal reality, regardless of the expense.