Chapter 1 - Part 1
Tehran, November 2011
This was totally different. The detective had seen murder before—anger-fueled stabbings, desperate gunshots, crimes of passion leaving behind their unmistakable chaos. But this was cruelty refined into an art form, where the act of killing wasn't just the end result, but part of the process, the entertainment.
The body lay on the bed, limbs unnaturally sprawled across pristine white linens. She was young—twenty-nine—and her dark hair spilled across her chest, a sharp contrast against her pale, almost translucent skin. Her bruises told a story of methodical violence, the marks on her arms, throat, and legs deliberate, their patterns controlled rather than chaotic.
Two distinct sets of bruises stood out. The first was scattered, playful, as though her attacker had tested her limits, marking her skin with cruel curiosity. The second set told a darker story—more deliberate, more focused. Her arms had been pinned above her head, her leg held down by a knee, while a strong hand had pressed into her throat, squeezing the life from her.
There were no defensive wounds. Her nails were intact, clean of any skin or fibers. It was as if she had surrendered—or perhaps been too terrified to resist.
Even more disturbing was what had come afterward: the cleaning. Her skin bore faint chemical burns, particularly around her mouth and other areas, as though someone had scrubbed her body with a calculated precision to remove every trace of DNA. The meticulous staging of the scene went beyond mere erasure; it spoke of an intent to obliterate not just evidence but intimacy, leaving behind a sanitized, chilling void that only amplified the horror.
But it was the stillness of her face that haunted the detective the most. There was no sign of struggle, no fevered desperation, just a calm, resigned emptiness.
The techs worked silently around him, cataloging every detail. They had already photographed the scene, bagged the evidence, and dusted for prints. The methodical process of crime scene investigation felt almost routine—except for the weight of what lay before them.
A technician approached the detective with a grim expression.
"Her phone's missing," the tech reported. "But her wallet was left behind. ID's intact—Pariya Zamanpour, twenty-nine years old."
The detective frowned. A stolen phone but an untouched ID? Oddly deliberate.
"Check her name for any SIM cards registered under it. I want to know her numbers, her call logs, and the last messages she sent or received. And while you're at it, find out who owns this property and who has access to it."
The tech nodded. "Got it. I'll get the team on it right away."
By the time the tech returned, the scene had been thoroughly documented. The evidence was bagged and ready for transport, the team packing up their tools. The detective, standing at the edge of the room, glanced up as the tech approached with two printed reports in hand.
"Detective, we've got some preliminary data. First, the property records. The penthouse belongs to Arad Pharma, registered under their corporate assets. It's primarily used for hosting clients and high-profile events. We pulled the list of people with access to the apartment."
The tech handed over the list. "Access is granted to senior management. That includes Sherwin Darayi Zadeh, Behzad Eskandari, Mehran Vahidi, and Kamran Ardavan. There might be others, but these are the key names."
The detective scanned the list, his lips tightening. "And the call records?"
The tech handed over the second report. "We ran the victim's SIM card. Her last call and text were to the same number, registered to Kamran Ardavan. She also made several unanswered calls to the same number earlier that day."
The detective's brow furrowed as he read the name. It wasn't entirely unexpected—wealth and power often seemed to circle violence like vultures—but this added weight to the suspicions already swirling around the room.
"Kamran Ardavan," the detective muttered, his voice heavy.
The tech hesitated, then added, "We're also cross-referencing his name with the penthouse access logs. If he entered recently, we'll know."
"Good work," the detective said. "Keep digging. I want to know his schedule, his connection to the victim, and everyone else who might've had access to this place."
The detective's gaze returned to the bed, to the lifeless body of Pariya Zamanpour. The meticulous nature of the scene, the missing phone, the erased traces of DNA—it all pointed to someone who had planned this carefully. Someone who had taken their time to enjoy the act, then vanished without leaving a trace.
"Someone's going to answer for this," he muttered under his breath.
