For our Sins

A bright light filled the room. The tired eyes of the chestnut unicorn stared lifelessly into the darkness of the night outside the window. In the glass, like a ghost, there loomed the reflection of a middle-aged stallion, wearing a white lab coat that hung open over his belly. Bloodshot blue eyes, devoid of tears from exhaustion, gazed into the dark expanse. The office was perfectly silent. During the night shift, only the occasional voices of nurses and orderlies disturbed the emptiness. The unicorn glanced at his reflection but did not notice his figure in it; his gaze settled on a stack of papers protruding from his pocket. He focused his magic, a weak pale-gray glow enveloped the paper. The doctor turned away from the large window and looked at the documents. He flipped through them, but the information contained within completely escaped his attention. The pages might as well have been blank, straight from a fresh ream of paper. The unicorn would have remembered just as much from them. He discarded them on the desk. He cast a dull gaze around his office. A typical doctor's room. A large, simple, and functional desk, a glass cabinet on the other side, a couch, and a door. The walls were adorned with a substantial number of diplomas. The renowned psychiatrist had quite a few of them, so they occupied almost the entire surface of one of the walls.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in..." he muttered quietly.

Apparently, the visitor did not hear the permission, as the knocking sounded again.

"Come in!" he nearly shouted.

A blue mare, dressed similarly to the doctor, slipped inside.

"I have the documents for you, Dr. Soul, about the patient from room fifteen..."

For a fraction of a second, the unicorn tried to force his mind to work. A look of concentration settled on his face. Extreme fatigue did not help him recall the details of individual patients and their ailments.

"Umm..." he managed to utter with a questioning look.

"It's about Mr. Smith..." the nurse prompted.

"Oh, yes! Yes, how are the results?" he asked.

"Getting better, here are the detailed results." The mare handed Soul a folder with a stack of papers.

"Yes... thank you very much..." the unicorn muttered, looking at the documents.

"If you need anything..."

"Yes, yes..." he said in a tone suggesting he wanted to be left alone.

The mare was almost out the door, but she glanced back for a moment.

"Doctor..." she began. "Thank you for staying with us," she added.

Soul looked at her over the folder, smiled, and nodded. The mare responded with a warm smile and disappeared behind the door. As soon as it closed, the doctor discarded the folder onto the desk. It landed right next to the previous stack of papers, scattering them across the surface.

The unicorn closed his eyes for a moment. He felt as if someone had poured sand under his eyelids. His eyes burned and stung. But no soothing tears came. When he opened his eyes again, when the dry eyeballs were exposed to the air again, it felt as if someone had poked him in the eye. He reached into one of the drawers and pulled out a small vial of drops. He dropped a few into his nearly nonexistent conjunctiva and blinked several times. During this time, another doctor entered his office almost silently.

Doctor Silver Stylus. A dark brown unicorn with almost black mane. He didn’t bother with unnecessary questions about whether he could enter or sit down. He treated everyone as equals, nurses, lab technicians, other doctors, even the head physician. After entering his friend's office, he sat in a chair and carefully observed the unicorn applying the drops.

"You look terrible, Soul," he said without a greeting.

The doctor looked at him with his bloodshot and tired eyes.

"I'll tell you one thing, my friend. You don't want to hate your job. I know it, and I know it from my own experience. A doctor doesn't want to hate his profession. If you plan to escape into work, from everything that surrounds you, you're doing it wrong. It might bring you temporary relief, but after a while, maybe a week, a month, six months, you'll hate this place. You'll treat it like a prison that you'll come to voluntarily."

The chestnut pony listened carefully to the words spoken by the guest.

"The hospital will simply disgust you. Trust me and don’t ask why. Just trust me. Go take a bath, eat something, I bet you haven’t had anything since lunch. Am I right?"

Soul nodded affirmatively.

"You see. You need rest. I wouldn't want you to make a mistake..."

The unicorn wanted to protest.

"No matter how good a doctor you are, fatigue and stress will take their toll. One mistake and someone will suffer because of you. Do you want that?"

"N... no," Soul replied in a hoarse voice.

His friend looked at him and smiled.

"Take a few days off, I’ll arrange it with the old man. He won’t mind, I’m sure. It’ll do you good. Here, you’re only hurting yourself. I don't want you to harm others."

The tired pony lowered his head for a moment. Silver was right. Fatigue and distraction are the worst enemies of doctors. A small mistake in calculating a drug dose can end in disaster. He knew that only here would he find solace, but he also knew that he wouldn't spend eternity here. He had to return to the hotel eventually. He had to rest. That moment had come.

"I'll be out of here soon," he said, thinking about something else.

The guest looked carefully at the doctor.

"I'm going for a smoke, to the courtyard. If I don't see you leaving the building in ten minutes, I'll come back here, and if I don't find you here, I'll search for you all night until I discover your hideout, understand?"

"Of course..." he replied.

Silver Stylus quietly closed the door behind him. He headed towards the main entrance and the courtyard. He pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket. He pondered. He knew very well that escaping into work could end badly. He had experienced it himself. After the divorce. When he found out that his wife was cheating on him with a rookie who was several years younger. The kid had just finished the academy and instead of getting down to hard work, he started fooling around with other people's wives. Silver didn't even care who seduced whom. His trust was shattered. Even though the house where they had spent so many years together belonged to him, after the divorce, he couldn't find his place there. So he took all the shifts, trips, and procedures. Just to stay in the hospital as long as possible.

He lasted a year like that. Then, he burned out. One day he realized that work no longer gave him the same satisfaction as before. He felt that something was missing. The old flame that had driven him to medical school had gone out. Only ashes remained, scattered by the cold wind that enveloped his soul. He knew the same fate awaited Soul. He couldn't mention the divorce to him. Not after Soul lost his wife and daughter. He knew he had to help him.

The cold night air sobered Soul up a bit as he stepped outside. The fatigue disappeared for a moment, and clarity of mind returned. The problems and worries returned. The pony turned towards the brightly lit hospital building. There he felt safe, secure. He sighed.

"Don't you dare go back there today!" came a voice from a dark corner of the courtyard.

"Still feeding the cancer, huh Silver?" Soul asked more clearly, looking towards the small red glow at the end of the cigarette.

"You have to take care of your pets," came the reply.

"Do you have another one?" the tired doctor asked.

In the darkness, the white shape of a cigarette appeared. Soul lit a lighter, briefly illuminating his friend's face. He took a drag, letting the smoke spread through his lungs and into his bloodstream. After a few seconds, the nicotine reached his brain. He relaxed.

"Take the rest of the week off. The old man will have no problem signing off on that leave," Silver began.

"I'll think about it," came the reply.

"Trust an old doctor. A break will do you good. Go out of town, rest, sleep, eat well. Don't hold back. I don't want you to harm any patient in the ward."

"You know very well that nothing like that will happen."

Silver was slowly finishing his cigarette.

"I know that tired doctors are a certain tragedy. I don't want to see you here until next Monday. The porter won't even let you in," he said without even looking at Soul. He stubbed out the cigarette and headed towards the building.

"If you need me, you know where to find me," Soul stated.

The departing doctor said nothing, just looked towards his friend and nodded. The doctor finished his cigarette and headed towards the hotel where he had been staying for two weeks. Since the murder.

He walked through almost empty streets, between tall tenement houses, closed shops, whose colorful lamps lit up the street. A mix of pinkish, yellow, and orange neon lights adorned the empty, cobblestone passages. When he passed the shopping district, he entered a less frequented and liked area. The lights were no longer as colorful and bright. The yellowish lighting barely dispersed the darkness. The gloom of old warehouses began to be overwhelming.

Soul felt like he was in an old noir film. Dark alleys, uncertainty, black and white. All that was missing was an old-style gangster. In a dark suit perfectly tailored, a stylish hat, and a powerful gun at his side, who kills the kidnappers of his femme fatale without batting an eye. The pony laughed.

"Nice place I found," he whispered under his breath.

As he walked further, he became more convinced that he had either stumbled onto the set of an old movie or suddenly traveled back in time to the days of prohibition and ubiquitous gangs. The cold wind pierced his body, despite the thick coat. Autumn weather liked to play tricks. While it could still be warm during the day, at night temperatures liked to drop below ten degrees. After all, it was November.

When he passed the old warehouses, he entered an even less frequented district of the city. He didn't come here often, but he was well aware of who he might encounter here. He looked around instinctively. Yes, this was the place. By one of the street lamps stood a mare. In the dim light, it was hard to see any details. When Soul approached, he confirmed who was standing in front of him.

The mare gracefully swung her rear towards the newcomer.

"Will you be tempted, darling?" she asked in a sugary voice.

Soul smiled to himself. These mares, for a few bits of crack, would do anything with you. Anything you desired. If you added something extra or had some forbidden substances with you, mainly hard drugs, you could count on a full trip. The doctor was well aware that for some, dying in the company of such mares, with a line being snorted by one of them, aimed at the crotch, was the best option for leaving this world.

The pony laughed again.

"Not today, darling, but maybe we'll meet soon?" he said, passing by the enticing mare.

"Mmm... maybe I'll prepare something special for you, with my friends?" she said in the same sugary voice as before.

"That would be nice," he replied.

The mare blew him a kiss, but Soul didn't respond. He walked on. After a few minutes, he was on one of the main streets. The hotel was still two kilometers away. He knew this district. He headed in the opposite direction from his lodging. He passed two intersections, a park, and a closed city recreation center. He turned into one of the smaller streets to reach his destination. The street might not have been very wide, but that didn't prevent a taxi stand from forming there.

Soul approached one of them. A dark green pony was reading the morning newspaper under the street lamp. He was leaning on his carriage and flipping through the pages.

"Ahem!"

The pony on the carriage looked at the newcomer.

"Yes?"

Soul took out a twenty and handed it to the taxi driver, saying:

"In two hours, take me to Hoffenst 384, room 201."

The pony reached for the money.

"Have fun," he said, putting the bill in the cash box.

Soul entered the bar he knew from his student days. A small, cozy pub where they celebrated the completion of various stages of their studies. Back then, they celebrated together. The interior hadn't changed much. The staff, waiters, and bartenders were, of course, different, but the atmosphere from those years remained untouched. Old paintings, depicting the same views for twenty years, still hung where they were placed. Above the door was a portrait of the founder. It was a blue pegasus with a dark purple mane. His confident gaze revealed extraordinary intelligence and determination. This portrait was motivating in its own way. As if it said, "Don't give up, fight to the end."

Soul sat at the bar, handed the bartender a bill, and asked for a bottle of vodka and a glass. He intended to get drunk like never before. Drink until he lost consciousness and sleep for two days. Then cure the hangover with cider and beer. And two days before returning to work, he would stuff himself with painkillers and soak in the bathtub, washing off the smell of the distillery that would inevitably accompany him.

He downed the first glass. He felt the bitter liquid flow into his stomach and the false warmth spread through his body. He sat completely alone, silently emptying the bottle, lost in his own thoughts. Now, when he got drunk, all troubles would go away. As long as he maintained this state until the end of the week, he wouldn't think about any of it even once.

Only that was exactly what he thought about. About what he wanted to forget. Even the increasingly overpowering alcohol in his brain didn't help. He looked at the bottle. It wasn't even half-empty, yet he felt like he had drunk two.

"Well, I haven't eaten anything for hours," he thought.

Despite his dulled senses and somewhat impaired perception, he still clearly saw images from the past. When he returned from work that day. Actually, not from work. He had left the hospital two hours earlier. He was with her. He had spent nearly three hours there. As usual, he would have excused himself with an extended procedure or an emergency case. Intensive care provided numerous opportunities to hide certain things. Things his wife shouldn't find out about.

Those were intoxicating moments. Sally was a completely different mare than his wife Lilly. Something had burned out in their marriage. The passion and fire from the beginning were gone. Although the fruit of their love was a daughter - Lenny. His pride and joy. It was for her that he worked so hard, so she could go to her dream university, so she could have whatever she wanted. He loved her more than life itself.

His thoughts returned to Sally again. The mare who gave him the warmth and passion he so lacked in his marriage. She didn't blame him for trivial things like Lilly, didn't reproach him for his extreme dedication to work, didn't mind that he had a wife and daughter. She understood him. Lilly often vented her frustration on her husband. Soul, not wanting to cause arguments, patiently endured all accusations, all insults, and reproaches. Something broke, something caused the whole marriage to wobble. It was unstable and increasingly fragile.

When Soul longed for closeness, the closeness that accompanied them before Lenny was born, he encountered coldness. Lilly's icy gaze and accusations. More and more each day. He felt something breaking inside him. The first and only time he hit her was when she accused him once again of prioritizing work over family. He couldn't take it. He deeply regretted it. He apologized to her, begged for forgiveness. Swore it would never happen again. The silent treatment lasted a good week then. That's when he met Sally. That's when it all started.

That day, when he said goodbye to his lover, he returned home more than an hour later than usual. He found the door ajar. He thought it was Lenny running out who had forgotten to close it. When he entered the living room, he saw the worst sight of his life. His wife lay motionless on the carpet, his daughter a few meters away. The bloodstain was already partially dried. Instinctively, he rushed to help. But the bodies were already cold.

Soul shook himself. The alcohol had clearly dulled his senses, as he only realized after a moment that the bartender was speaking to him.

"Shall I call a taxi?" he asked.

The stallion gathered himself to speak as clearly as possible about who was waiting for him.

"The young, dark green one... is waiting for me..." he said slowly and carefully, trying not to slur his words.

The bartender nodded and disappeared for a moment. After a few seconds, the mentioned taxi driver entered the pub. He quickly looked around and approached the client. The bartender closed the bottle and handed it to the dark green pony.

"That belongs to this gentleman," he said.

The taxi driver nodded. For him, such orders were the norm. When still sober clients ordered a ride home at a specific time, when they wanted to get drunk to the limit. The stallion, supporting the unicorn, led him to his carriage. The cold air momentarily sobered Soul. He looked with a blurry gaze at his companion.

"Yes, I remember, Hoffenst 384, room 201," he began.

The doctor settled comfortably in the seat and leaned against the wall. He looked out the window. The carriage started moving after a moment. They headed towards the hotel.

The doctor looked at the city shrouded in darkness. When they passed the river, he caught himself wondering how deep it could be here. Five meters? Ten? Twenty? A few years ago they had dredged the river, removing the accumulated silt.

"A few years ago?" he laughed. "Exactly when Lenny was born. Eight years ago," he thought.

Suddenly he remembered the portrait of the founder of his favorite bar from his student days. His confident gaze, full of intelligence, saying to never give up.

"What am I thinking about... it won't help, only the weak resort to such things..."

***

The next morning brought nothing but another headache. Alcohol had wreaked havoc on Soul's body over the past few days. When he opened his eyes, it was still twilight outside. He lifted himself from the bed and allowed his consciousness to return to a normal state. The various elements of reality returned and settled where they should be. He was in the hotel. He had been living here for almost three weeks, had a leave until the end of the week, it was Friday, the time... half past six. Normal ponies were already on their way to work or school at this hour. But that didn't concern him. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he massaged his aching head. The room was dimly lit.

"Damn it... what was the point..." he muttered to himself.

He looked around the room. The spacious hotel room, despite its drunken owner, was in impeccable condition. Clothes were piled in one place so as not to be scattered all over the floor, empty bottles were placed by the cabinet and trash can. On the small desk lay stacks of papers. Newspapers from almost three weeks ago, with headlines screaming about the brutal murder of the family of a well-known and respected doctor. The perpetrator had not yet been caught. A substantial reward was offered for help in capturing the murderer. There was nothing. No clues, no witnesses, no traces. Like a stone thrown into water.

Soul felt a sudden wave of nausea. He barely managed to grab the bucket with melted ice to vomit into it. He felt terrible. A few days of continuous drinking did not serve his exhausted body well. Poor meals and little sleep also contributed to the worsening situation. When his stomach was emptied and the waves of nausea passed, the doctor got up from the bed after a moment. He wobbled but maintained his balance. The only food he found in the small cabinet was a pack of biscuits. With no better option, he unpacked them and, trying not to make crumbs, devoured them in an instant.

After a long shower, he felt much better. The dizziness passed, leaving only a pounding headache and a gnawing hunger. He decided to order breakfast to his room. A few moments later, the service delivered the order.

Soul settled at the desk and, munching on roasted hay, looked at his notes from the past few days and newspaper clippings. Some of the papers were soaked with cider or Apple Daniels. A few pages were stuck together.

"On the afternoon of November 4th, an unknown perpetrator broke into the home of a well-known doctor (...) Friends and family in mourning (...) Police refuse to comment on the matter, the perpetrator has not been caught (...)" he read.

He discarded the newspaper and looked at the notes.

"What were your motives, you bastard?" he asked himself. "Nothing was stolen, the tableware was there, the jewelry was in place, the safe untouched... traveler's checks in place. He didn't even search the apartment..." he added.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

"Come in!" he almost shouted.

A dark purple pony entered the room. It was one of the detectives from the Manehattan police. Assigned to the case of the murder of Soul's family. Riddle Crusher.

"Hello, doctor," he began, removing his hat.

Soul nodded, swallowing another bite of hay.

"Please excuse my state, an unexpected leave... and I overdid it a bit," he apologized.

The detective just nodded.

"Please take care of yourself," the guest stated.

Soul nodded.

"What brings you to me, Mr. Riddle?"

The detective pondered for a moment, as if considering what words to use.

"I'll be honest with you, Mr. Soul," he began. "We need your help," he added.

"Mine?" he asked in surprise.

Riddle nodded.

"Yesterday, in the evening, there was a murder identical to..."

Soul almost choked.

"Where?!" he asked.

"Slowly, please let me finish..." the detective calmed him. "The victim was a young mare, she was twenty-five years old. Again, we don't know the motive. Nothing was stolen, the apartment was probably not searched. Her boyfriend found her late in the evening. The method of murder was identical to that of your wife..." he concluded.

Soul was stunned. He looked ahead but wasn't present in the room.

"Doctor?"

"Yes... yes... I understand..." Soul articulated.

"So... can we count on your help?" the detective asked again.

Soul pondered. He wiped his forehead with his hoof.

"My previous psychological profile wasn't accurate..."

"Our regular psychologist can't handle this. You have more experience, everyone makes mistakes... your help could be invaluable in the investigation..."

Soul thought about it. The last profile was completely off. He made basic mistakes in his assumptions, as if the solid ground suddenly slipped out from under his feet. Suddenly, all his work, all the pieces of the puzzle fell apart. The perpetrator turned himself in to the police. The blood and saliva tests found at the scene matched the suspect's material. Only the developed profile didn't match.

"I can't..." he whispered.

Riddle stood up.

"Do you want to give up? Do you want that one mistake to destroy you?"

Soul looked at the detective in surprise. The tone of his voice was different. Firm.

"If everyone gave up after a serious failure, where would we be today? Hitting each other with sticks and living in caves? Like ancient ponies? Do you think failure is the end? It's a motivator, a drive for self-improvement. Determination matters, do you want to give up after one inaccurate profile, compared to hundreds of others? Perfect ones? There are still some discrepancies in that case. Although the material matched during the tests, it doesn't necessarily mean that pony isn't covering for someone, haven't you thought about that?"

The psychologist considered. Riddle was right. So what if the material matched, the perpetrator could be someone else. He knew such cases, when a partner messed up the job, he had to fix it. One way was to close the investigation, so the one who left traces didn't have to be a serial burglar. Soul looked at the detective.

"And... is that case closed?"

"By the prosecutor's order—yes. I don't have time to deal with someone stealing stones from robbers, when there's a murderer prowling Manehattan. Moreover, it's a damn cleaner. Leaves no traces."

Soul pondered again.

"Doctor, we need you," Riddle emphasized, looking at his interlocutor.

The unicorn took a deep breath.

"Here are collected copies of documents, the crime scene protocol, photos, and witness statements," the detective threw a gray folder on the table. "Please familiarize yourself with it," his tone indicated an order, not a request.

Soul sighed.

"I'll take care of it today," he replied.

"I would be very grateful, now please excuse me, I have to go to the station," Riddle said goodbye to his interlocutor and headed for the door.

Soul, sitting on the chair, buried his head in his hooves. In front of him lay a folder, possibly containing clues about the murderer. He knew what would be in there. He had worked on similar cases before. Photos showing bodies in unnatural positions, lying in a pool of blood. Sometimes, some psychopaths left their distinctive marks.

Once it was a paper swan placed in a pool of blood—a reference to "Swan Lake." The murderer was a prompter. A trivial case, another time the perpetrator glued the victim's eyelids so that the eyes were always open. And the message "you look but you don't see." Another trivial case. An optician.

"Do they all have to be so messed up?!" he shouted.

He looked at the folder. A simple, gray file, tied with a snow-white string. It only had the case number on it. This reminded Soul of the approach he should have to this job. It's just another case, another number. Not someone's wife, daughter, fiancée. Just another number. Four hundred twenty-eight. Another case.

The pain returned. The conversation with Riddle had somewhat sobered Soul. He had forgotten about the terrible headache. He looked around the room. On the table stood a half-full bottle of cider. The psychologist pulled it towards himself.

"Reveal yourself..." he whispered, then, opening the folder, took a swig from the bottle.

***

Riddle headed towards the police station. He pulled his hat over his head and burrowed as deeply as he could into his coat. Riddle subconsciously chose a route that led past Dr. Soul's house.

"Not very talkative..." he remarked.

The detective pondered the motives for the crime. Questioning the neighbors yielded nothing. They had seen nothing, heard nothing. Some of them were at work when the murder was committed, children were at school. An elderly lady living across the street was at the market. It was the perfect time. A dead zone around, empty houses, and the murderer chose this one. The interview indicated that Soul had no enemies. The only patient who had died during an operation performed by him had no family, so even the motive of a brother or sister seeking revenge was ruled out. No one targeted honest doctors. It's another matter with bribe-takers.

It was eight-thirty when he reached Lotników Equestrii Street, where Soul's house was located. It was a quiet street with single-family houses around, not far from the center. A quiet corner of a big city.

The detective stopped and looked around. The clean street gave an almost sterile impression. Freshly fallen leaves were swept, the only ones lying were on the lawn of property number thirty-four. The doctor's house. A two-story, cozy building with several rooms in the attic. Painted white with purple elements. Once well-maintained, the garden was now somewhat neglected. The gate was locked. In front of the front door lay a piece of police tape, forbidding entry. Nearby houses were almost deserted.

A few houses away, a dark green unicorn was leaving a building. Dressed in a tasteful suit, he levitated a black briefcase beside him. Probably a banker.

"By four o'clock there won't be anyone here... from nine in the morning to four in the afternoon, this area is almost dead..." Riddle noted. "Was it someone who knows the residents' schedule? Someone from the city sanitation department? Maybe the mailman?" he added, then laughed.

"Yeah... the famous 'Death Deliverer,' that silly tabloid comic about a murderous mailman, how did it become so popular?" he wondered. "I wonder what he did with the return to sender?"

Suddenly, as if on cue, a postal van appeared on the street. A young light blue pegasus gracefully landed on the asphalt. He checked the prepared packages and quickly distributed them to the nearby mailboxes. He looked towards the detective. The lone figure hidden in the coat caught his attention.

"Did I interrupt something?" Riddle asked himself.

***

Soul was going through the documents. He pushed the photos aside after a quick glance. The bodies were arranged differently. So, this was a random element. There are murderers who arrange bodies in various ways. He knew of a case where the murderer had seated a pony at his desk. When the cleaning lady found her boss, she was in for a huge shock. The employer was sitting as usual in his chair, with the only difference being that he was usually more lively and didn't have a metal blade in his heart.

"Again, the apartment wasn't searched, the murder wasn't sexual or racist. It wasn't a zebra or a griffon. Again, it was a mare. But twenty years younger than the previous victim..." he listed.

Soul's mind seemed to have put up a barrier, not allowing thoughts of his wife and daughter to come through. At least not as his closest ones.

"In the first case, the daughter could have been a random victim..." he took a hefty swig from the bottle. "She was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

The stallion straightened up in his chair. He closed his eyes and let the alcohol buzz in his head a bit.

"What connects you? What is the common element... Is it the same pony?" he wondered.

He looked at the folder again. There were still a few pages left. Some information about the victim.

"A teacher, worked for two years in an elementary school... engaged... came to Manehattan for studies... Oh girl, you had your whole life ahead of you..."

He went through the next pages. Subconsciously comparing his wife to this mare.

"Nothing connects you... Lilly was forty-five, raising a child... wait... working with children?" suddenly something clicked. "A teacher and a mother... both dealing with children... could it be some failed pedophile? No, wait... it doesn't add up, too many discrepancies... That mare had been a teacher for only a few years, Lilly... raising a child for eight."

Soul got up from the chair and walked to the window. At nine-thirty, the city was already bustling with life. Various carriages were passing by, skillfully avoiding pedestrians. Local vendors were encouraging people to buy their not necessarily healthy hay burgers.

"Who knows what they put in those," Soul said to himself, looking out the window at one of them.

On the other side of the street, a young mare was walking with a foal. Soul felt a pang in his stomach.

"Damn... damn... DAMN!" he shouted, turning away from the window. "It's my fault! It's damn MY FAULT!" he screamed. "Where was I then? WHERE? WITH THAT BITCH!" he screamed as tears started streaming down his cheeks.

He gritted his teeth, trying to control his anger.

"It's my fault... I would have killed... I WOULD HAVE KILLED THE BASTARD!" he shouted. "It's my family, no one will raise a hoof against my family!"

Suddenly, an image appeared before his eyes. The day he first and only hit Lilly. He remembered the feeling. He remembered every second. He curled up. He was now lying on the floor, furious with himself.

"No... I can't give up... it's for Lilly..." he stood up. "I'll get you..." he added.

***

Riddle was going through the documents of two cases on his desk when a dark gray pegasus entered his room. Myst. His partner in field operations.

"Got anything new?" he asked upon entering.

The stallion shook his head.

"Nothing. This pony is some damn ghost. Can you believe he didn't leave any traces? Nothing, absolutely nothing. As if he was floating in the air. Or has sterile hooves..."

"Besides, he acts pretty fast. Three weeks and already a second victim..."

"Good thing it's not every day," Riddle added.

"Is there any common element for the victims?"

"Not really. The age difference is twenty years, they were involved in different things, didn't know each other..."

"Maybe the murderer knew them?"

"Possible, but how? If he's the link between the two, where did he meet them? Mrs. Lilly had been raising her daughter for eight years, according to Dr. Soul's description, she didn't have many friends. She was more of a homebody, preferred the warmth of home to wandering around the city."

"A mare like that in Manehattan?" Myst was surprised.

"Apparently..."

"So the theory that he knew both is not very credible..."

"We still don't know what guides him in choosing victims..."

The pegasus pondered.

"What time were these murders committed?"

"The first in the late afternoon, the second in the late evening," Riddle replied.

"So time is out too..."

"The bastard breaks our patterns," the detective said, putting the folder on the desk and leaning against it.

"There must be some common element, there always is..."

"And if it's a jumper?" Riddle suggested.

"Then we're screwed..."

***

Soul stepped outside. The autumn weather only emphasized the grayness of the concrete metropolis. Within a few blocks, there was no trace of greenery. The only signs of nature were occasional flower beds near some hotels and office buildings. The air was filled with the smell of roasted hay, mixed with other sharp and pungent odors rising from uncovered sewer grates. Soul was all too familiar with these city charms. He grew up here. He knew many corners of Equestria's "golden apple." Like any major city, Manehattan had its charm. No matter how neglected and dirty it was, it had something that attracted ponies from all over the country.

The doctor entered one of the vegetable shops near his hotel. A small family store probably run by the eldest daughter. Soul, having been here before, had seen an older purple mare or a stallion. He had a distinctive dark red coat. Once, in a short conversation, he learned that the business was taken over from the father. He deduced that the saleswoman was one of the mentioned children.

"What can I get for you?" she asked in a velvety voice.

"I'll take..." he thought for a second. "Half a kilo of apples, do you still have any paper apples?"

"Of course," came the reply. The mare skillfully maneuvered around the crates and headed to the one containing the mentioned goods.

Soul looked around the room. A shop like hundreds in the city. It didn't stand out with anything unusual, but it had some charm. It had been run by a family for generations... Family. The unicorn's thoughts halted, staring emotionlessly at the street.

"Is that all?" came the mare's question from behind the counter.

Soul didn't respond. He stood still with his gaze fixed on one point.

"Excuse me? Are you feeling alright?" she asked again.

"Yes? Sorry... I was lost in thought," the stallion replied.

"That will be... four bits," the mare gave the price.

Soul used his magic to retrieve his wallet, counted out the appropriate amount, and handed it to the mare. He took the bag with his purchases and headed for the exit. He stopped.

"Please forgive my curiosity," he began uncertainly. "Are you perhaps the daughter of the owner of this shop?" he asked.

The saleswoman was surprised.

"Yes... how did you know?" she asked.

"I once talked to your father, he mentioned you, I guessed," he replied, smiling. "Respect your parents. Family is a true treasure," he added.

The mare was even more surprised.

"Excuse me... but I don't understand, do I need to tell my father something?" she asked.

"No... no need. Just... I hope you never have to understand... at least not in a certain sense... sorry, I was lost in thought."

"Have a nice day," he ended the conversation with a smile, then left the shop.

"It's just work... just numbers and more puzzles to solve..." he repeated to himself.

He felt tears starting to well up in his eyes. He also felt his coat getting heavier. It was raining. Heavy, dark clouds covered the sky over Manehattan. Within seconds, the end of the street was no longer visible.

Soul headed towards the hotel. As he walked, he got lost in his thoughts.

Sense... where is the sense... the common element... what are you hiding?

Suddenly, he stepped on some trash, which threw him off balance. He staggered, then fell heavily into a puddle.

"DAMN!" he hissed.

Suddenly, a thought enveloped his mind.

That's how you'll end up, Soul.

The stallion froze.

"Damn... what was that?"

The pony's mind was suppressed again.

"Life... science, everything intertwines... the mind is a reflection of the soul. The soul has its foundations in nature... nature is modified... DAMN!" he shouted. "What am I babbling..."

He felt, along with the rain, his body and mind being enveloped by helplessness. He couldn't get up. Like a nightmare, the sight of his murdered wife returned. Right next to her lay his beloved daughter. Lenny.

"NOOO! NOOO! Why them?!" he screamed, his voice drowned out by the sound of raindrops hitting the cobblestone streets. "No... it's just work... they're gone... I'll do it for them... I'LL GET YOU! DO YOU HEAR?! I'LL GET YOU, BASTARD!"

***

Myst stood by the window.

"These downpours are becoming more frequent... let's hope it doesn't flood Lower Manehattan again..." he remarked.

"Mhm..." Riddle replied.

"Do the technicians have any fibers, sand, prints, anything that I don't know about?"

"As far as I know, Finder didn't collect anything there. He took pictures, and that's where his work ended."

"You were there... didn't you smell any cleaning agents? I have a cold..."

Myst pondered.

"No... nothing was cleaned, there were no smudges, no traces of any liquid. The blood splatters were untouched, he didn't step in them..."

"It's a pegasus," Riddle said.

"The windows were closed..."

"But not the stairwell. He didn't have muddy or sandy hooves. He must have flown."

"A pegasus... We haven't convicted a pegasus in two years. There are few of them in Manehattan. The air here doesn't suit them."

"All the better. We'll pressure the clinics to give us a list of registered pegasi. Those who live here must undergo regular check-ups," Riddle stated.

"Do you know how many clinics, private practices, and hospitals there are in the city?" Myst asked incredulously.

"You're a pegasus yourself... you said that when you need treatment, you go to the central health clinic. Don't they have a record of everyone who has finished medicine in this city? In the era of widespread records, bureaucracy, there will always be some trace. If the bastard doesn't leave traces at the crime scene, he leaves them elsewhere," the detective replied.

Myst sighed.

"This is both crazy and... damn likely."

"No one said it would be easy, let's go. Time is..."

"The life of another citizen," Myst added.

***

Soul sat staring at the ceiling.

"How does a murderer think?" he asked himself. "A murderer... wants to show off. His victims are his trophies. He feels power and control when he takes their lives. But what does this particular monster feel?" he asked himself.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in!" he ordered.

A pony from the staff entered the room. He handed Soul two thick envelopes, sealed by the archivist at the station. Returning from his shopping, when he had calmed down a bit, he asked the porter to send a messenger to the station with a message. He requested some documents that would allow him to get a broader understanding of the case.

He looked at his notes. The first murder: a mare aged forty-five and a foal aged eight. Probably a random victim. Late afternoon hours. Place of murder... the victim's home, Lotników Equestriańskich Street.

The second victim. A mare aged twenty-five. Late evening hours... place of murder, the victim's apartment. Nomia Street.

"The description of the place doesn't indicate anything special. The arrangement of the victims is random... slit throats, a lot of blood. Probably one quick move. No hoofprints, nothing. Like a ghost," he recited.

He opened the delivered envelopes and spread out the collected documents and notes. These were the cases he was working on.

"I can't determine his age, it could be a stallion. A mare might have trouble attacking the victim," he pondered, imagining the movements the murderer had to make.

One quick cut required approaching the victim from behind, blocking their movements with a strong grip, and a sudden, quick, and decisive pull. If it were a mare, she would have to be athletic and strong. And that would narrow the circle of suspects from the entire city to the local women's rugby team.

"Motive... motive... what drove you to this? What did you feel when you did it? What type are you? What do you want to achieve with this?" he asked himself.

***

An evening walk allowed Soul to organize his thoughts. The fresh November air acted on the tired stallion's mind like a cold shower on the body. Walking by the river, he wrapped himself in his coat. He slowly covered several meters. From time to time, he caught himself trying to find the criminal's motive. He promised himself that during the walk he wouldn't think about work.

He moved away from the crowded streets of Manehattan. Here, it was quiet. No pony was wandering the riverside path at this hour. In the morning, it was bustling with ponies exercising. In the evening, after sunset, there was practically no one here. He felt again like on the way from the hospital to the hotel, when he passed the old warehouses. For a moment, a thought flashed through his mind about what was happening in the ward. Whether they needed his help but didn't want to call him to rest, or perhaps the opposite—they were managing much better.

He dismissed these thoughts. He had a leave from work until the end of the week. He could focus on helping the detective. Unintentionally, he remembered that mare. A meaningless mare, standing in a shabby district and looking for an opportunity. Why did he think of her? He stopped.

He looked at the flowing river.

"Why didn't he hide the bodies?" he asked himself.

He took a deep breath. He held the air in his lungs. He stood like that for several seconds, then exhaled.

"A block...," he sighed. "A damn mental block. I won't come up with anything," he assessed the situation coldly. "I need... I need some stimulus... a stimulus to unlock me," he pondered. "This is my case... but I need to pull myself together. I need to find the motive. A point of reference. I need... to understand his mind."

***

Night enveloped the streets of Manehattan. Another day passed in the big city. Someone gained a fortune on the stock market, someone lost their life savings. Someone fell in love, someone was betrayed. Thousands of ponies passed each other on the streets. Writers searching for inspiration, passing by residents whose stories could fill several volumes of gripping novels. Musicians lost in their thoughts where unborn compositions played, or painters whose imaginative eyes saw works worthy of the greatest galleries and art connoisseurs.

A big city and big dreams. Some came here to get rich, others to start a new life, and yet others... to lose it.

The long street was shrouded in semi-darkness. Decorated streetlights illuminated their surroundings with a yellowish light, giving a faint sense of security to late passers-by. Nightfall Street. It was lined with old tenement houses, remembering the times of Princess Luna's return from exile. One of its residents was just returning from the afternoon shift. The mare knew this district. She grew up here. She knew who she might encounter and how to avoid them. She walked confidently towards her home. She stopped for a second, wondering if she had taken everything from the last open grocery store in the area. She was starving. When, going through the purchased items in her mind, she concluded that she had everything, she moved on. Following her, like a shadow, was a hooded figure.

***

Loud knocking on the door woke Soul. The previous night, he had stayed up late going through old documentation. His eyes still burned, and before his vision adjusted enough to see the clock, the guest grew impatient. The knocking turned into regular pounding on the door.

"Dr. Soul, are you there?"

"Just... a moment!" the doctor called back.

He recognized Commissioner Riddle's voice. He quickly got out of bed and went to the door to unlock it. The detective entered the room without an invitation. His expression didn't bode well.

"Please, Commissioner," he indicated a chair.

"Thank you," he replied. "But I'll stand, and you, get dressed," he ordered.

Soul was a bit surprised.

"Did something happen?"

"Indeed, doctor. The Shadow has struck again," Riddle replied.

"The Shadow?" the psychologist asked, somewhat confused.

"Yes, officially the murderer has been given that nickname. He's elusive, leaves no traces. Always in the shadows."

"I understand..." the doctor murmured. "But why do you need me?"

"We thought you might notice something we can't see..."

"Couldn't you, as always, send me photos?"

"Photos don't capture what might be missed during a real inspection," Riddle noted.

"I understand... I'll be ready in a moment," the psychologist replied reluctantly.

After several minutes, they were on the scene. The two-story tenement house didn't stand out from the other, almost identical buildings. Soul looked around the area.

"Our shadow... as you called him... has changed his preferences. The two previous victims lived in better neighborhoods..." Soul stated.

"We noticed that too," Riddle replied.

They entered the victim's apartment. Soul knew what to expect. He had investigated many cases before and had seen photos from previous Shadow cases. The apartment, despite its somewhat austere style, was neatly arranged. Apart from the body of a forty-five-year-old mare lying in a pool of blood in the hallway, the entire apartment was almost sterile clean. Soul looked around.

"I'm afraid we won't find any traces this time either."

"Unfortunately... Do you see anything unusual?" he asked.

The unicorn scanned the crime scene again.

"He doesn't arrange the bodies in any characteristic way. He doesn't want to convey anything. There are no specific traces, he doesn't leave any recognizable mark. Moreover... it seems to me that this is only his third victim," he added.

"What makes you think that?"

"Do you see the cut on the neck?" he asked.

Riddle reluctantly looked at the fatal wound.

"Do you remember the photos of the previous cuts?"

"I don't see anything unusual in them..."

"It's... deeper. As if the murderer has gained some skill..." Soul stated.

Riddle looked at the mare's neck wound again. Deep, perfectly smooth at the edges. The blood had already clotted and partially oxidized. Despite years of practice, the detective felt uneasy.

"Are you saying he's learning?" he asked after a moment.

"Very possible..." Soul replied. "He doesn't want to be detected," he added after a moment.

Riddle looked at the doctor. Soul was lost in thought.

"That's all I know. We don't even have scraps of information. You aptly chose his nickname. The Shadow. We have a faint shadow of any information. We don't know who he is, where he comes from. What drives him, what forces him to commit these murders."

The detective frowned.

"He's playing with us, Commissioner," Soul looked into his interlocutor's eyes. "If you want to catch a shadow, you must become a shadow yourself."

***

Commissioner Riddle looked at Dr. Soul with curiosity. The psychologist continued to examine the crime scene, trying to understand the murderer's motives and looking for any foreign traces. The way he committed the murders was nothing new to the investigators. He probably followed the victim until she reached her apartment or home. From that moment, he could choose different scenarios: he could pretend to be a lost tourist who wandered into the wrong place and didn't know how to get to his hotel. Sometimes they chose places relatively close, ones the victim might know, to increase the chances of interest and give themselves a few seconds while the pony instructed how to get there. Then they attacked.

Another possibility was an immediate attack from hiding. Quick and unexpected. The victim wouldn't even have time to scream. This explains the previous lack of witnesses. No one heard anything, no one saw anything, because it happened within a minute, at most two. Some bastards were really fast. They killed like death's own messengers. Quickly and effectively. They broke victims' necks, stabbed them in the heart, slit their throats. The range of ways to kill another pony in a few seconds increased every day. No one really knew what was going on in the minds of these psychopaths.

"You see, Commissioner, we need to start thinking like him. Murderers usually perceive the world differently. If he was beaten, persecuted, and humiliated in childhood, he chooses victims he considers a threat. Teachers... or mothers," the doctor stated.

Riddle quickly looked at his notes.

"I don't think that's it," he began. "This mare worked in an insurance agency," he added.

"Nevertheless. Our shadow... as you call him, harbors a grudge against mares. Mares of different ages. So far, he hasn't murdered any stallions?"

The commissioner pondered.

"We had one murder in the northern district, a stallion, aged forty, but everything points to a dispute between dealers. He got a knife in the stomach, and they stuffed his goods into the wound."

"Typical intimidation of the competition. They're not interested in their goods, just the territory and influence. The goods you found are probably of poorer quality," the psychologist stated.

Riddle just nodded.

"But let's get back to our case," Soul began again. "So far, we only know that this is a pony who can operate in the shadows, probably knows how to follow victims. He's quick and strong. He has a grudge against mares. The first theory that comes to mind—a disgruntled divorcee. The wife sends him packing under the bridge, and he takes revenge on mares. The question remains, why different ages?"

"We'll check that. The last training for policemen was six months ago. I'll find all the records and check each one individually. Whether he was married, whether he divorced," Riddle announced.

"Do you think it's someone from the police?" Soul asked.

"If he knows how to follow others, how to operate in the shadows, he must have gained that experience somewhere. You don't gain practical skills from crime novels. And believe me, if someone like that practiced tracking ponies and didn't know how to do it, they would either get their face punched or it would be reported to us," the commissioner stated.

"Well... Manehattan residents are very sensitive about their privacy..." Soul added.

"Do you remember the case of that reporter from 'Hoof News of the Stars'?" Riddle asked.

"I vaguely remember... he was following some minor celebrity, right?"

"Exactly. That starlet grew up in Manehattan. He knew the city and was steeped in its customs. He quickly figured out he was being tracked. The reporter ended up in intensive care..."

"I thought celebrities liked being the center of attention?"

"Who can keep up with those eccentrics," the detective sighed.

Myst entered the apartment.

"Got anything?" Riddle asked.

The pegasus threw his notebook on the table.

"The usual. No one knows anything, no one saw anything, no one heard anything," he replied resignedly.

"What ponies..." Riddle sighed. "Whenever a couple is too loud—they call the police, whenever a drunk topples over a trash can—they call the police. But when someone gets murdered, suddenly their keen senses become useless... What a nation..."

"Collective responsibility," Soul began. "Even if they see something happening, they don't notify anyone. They think someone else will do it. Do you know how that works in practice?" he asked.

Riddle looked at his interlocutor.

"Imagine this situation: a pony is lying on the street. The first thought of a random, ordinary passerby? Such a pony thinks that the one lying there is drunk and simply avoids him. Even if it crosses his mind that something might have happened to him, he believes someone else will take care of it."

Riddle listened attentively.

"The second issue: an accident happened. A crowd of onlookers gathered, and no one does anything. Everyone thinks someone else will call an ambulance and the police. This is called the diffusion of responsibility. The larger the group, the more responsibility is dispersed, and no one does anything."

The commissioner nodded.

"True..." he stated. "Sigh... Finder, do you have anything that can surprise me?" he turned to the technician packing up his equipment.

The dark orange earth pony shook his head.

"The Shadow left us nothing..." he replied.

The commissioner cursed under his breath. He looked at the victim. Soul was closely examining her.

"And you, doctor, will you surprise me with anything?"

"You now know exactly the same as I do. You know my opinion. I'm still working on it," Soul replied.

Riddle sighed.

"There's nothing more for us here now. Let the pathologist take care of the body," he announced.

Soul stood up. Two employees of the police morgue entered the apartment. Another procedure was beginning, in which the psychologist no longer had a role. He checked if he had everything with him and passed the entering stallions. Outside, he said goodbye to the commissioner and promised to contact him as soon as he reached any conclusions.

Riddle didn't hide how much the Shadow case irritated him. The murderer was playing on his nerves as he pleased. The commissioner, a veteran of many cases, now felt powerless. He didn't have the slightest lead. He had nothing to start with. The possibilities proposed by Soul required checking thousands of city residents. Despite narrowing down the circle of suspects slightly, to ponies who might have been humiliated and abused in their foalhood, their number still reached hundreds of thousands. A multimillion city is a real cauldron of personalities. Hell for investigators. Thousands of suspects, false leads, dead ends, and only one culprit.

Soul hid his frustration deep inside. During the inspection, he was calm and composed. He even gave the impression of slight interest in the whole case. Another experienced psychologist would surely have caught on quickly, but not the detectives. Although they knew not only the basics of psychology but also its advanced issues, they were easy to mislead. The psychologist hated the Shadow. He knew it, but he tried not to let that feeling come through. This was supposed to be another murderer to catch. Another profile to fill in. Only this profile was like the murderer himself—a shadow. It didn't exist.

The conclusions drawn fit thousands of residents but did not point to anyone specific. They were too general. The doctor, lost in thought, left the district where the murder had occurred. He headed to one of the cafes. A dose of caffeine always helped him.

After a few minutes, he reached a spacious bistro he often frequented. He noticed that the staff had changed a bit and realized that the last time he was here was over two months ago. He ordered an espresso and a piece of cake. While waiting for his order, he looked around the place. There were a few couples and a few solitary ponies sitting in different parts of the bistro.

He was slowly starting to organize his thoughts when he noticed Riddle entering the establishment. The stallion saw the doctor and nodded. Soul invited him over with a gesture.

"What a small city this is..." he joked with effort.

"Apparently not small enough, we can't catch our shadow," Soul remarked.

Riddle bit his lip.

"What are you ordering?"

"They serve excellent apple pie here, so I'll go for that," he stated.

As if on cue, the waiter arrived with Soul's order.

"May I take your order?" he asked the commissioner.

"Of course... I'll have the apple pie, it's truly wonderful," he replied.

The waiter smiled.

"Certainly, I'll bring it right away," he said.

Riddle turned to the psychologist.

"What do you think? What are our chances of catching this psychopath?"

Soul took a sip of coffee. He pondered.

"Such cases seem hopeless, it's true. But everyone makes a mistake eventually. That one mistake that will allow us to catch him. It's a matter of time," he replied.

"But we don't have time..." the commissioner stated.

"We have too few clues. Too few hints," he replied. "Let me share a little secret with you," he added.

Riddle frowned and leaned over the table.

"Something known only to police psychologists. Something that remains within our knowledge. Something only we know. Something we shouldn't use."

"What exactly?"

"There is a certain technique of self-hypnosis. However, it requires two experienced psychologists working on the case. The idea is that one of them hypnotizes himself, as if applying an incomplete profile of the murderer."

Riddle listened intently.

"When the process ends, the hypnotized one is questioned very thoroughly by the other psychologist. This way, the incomplete profile can be filled in. This method even allows for the specific identification of the perpetrator. Not by name, but overlapping behaviors complement each other with those that will fit. A complete profile and personality of the murderer then forms in one of their minds," Soul finished in an almost conspiratorial whisper as the waiter approached the table with the commissioner's order.

Riddle received the cake and contemplated Soul's words in silence for a moment.

"Interesting..."

"And dangerous. This method was banned several decades ago. It was used a few times, and it was damn effective..."

Riddle watched his interlocutor.

"None of the hypnotized ever returned. That means their own personality was either annihilated or merged with the murderer's personality. They were too dangerous. They were placed in special institutions, where they died after a few years."

Riddle settled into his chair.

"Do you think it's our only chance?" he asked after a moment.

"Nonsense," Soul replied. "We only have scraps of information. Nothing can be pieced together from this. It could fit both me and you. Didn't some mare break our hearts? Even back in our student days?"

"You're right..."

"And besides... where would you find madmen willing to undertake such a mission now?"

Riddle laughed.

"I think if someone higher up pressured those above me, they would shell out so much that volunteers would be banging down the doors and windows," he joked.

"Not knowing what they're getting into," Soul thought.

"Well, we must consider that possibility doomed to failure. The council strictly prohibited the use of this method. They could promise whole wagons of gold, but there's no chance anyone would agree to perform such... a peculiar ritual. That's what we called it in college when we learned about this method," he replied, sipping his coffee.

Riddle took another bite of his cake. He pondered for a moment.

"So, we stick to the classic methods," he said after a while.

Soul nodded. He had shared that story with the commissioner just to show him that they, psychologists, also have their tricks up their sleeves. However, they are often far more dangerous than those the detective knows. Take interrogations, for example. Modern law prohibits using magic to extract the truth from suspects. When magic became useless in this field, they used psychology. Hypnosis, intimidation, and other more or less interesting methods. Those were banned too. What's left is long-lasting interrogations until the accused confesses out of sheer boredom.

Soul smiled at the thought. In his imagination, he saw Riddle, that old hothead, interrogating some pony. The poor guy, bored out of his mind, admits guilt just to get out of the room.

Riddle quickly finished his piece of cake.

"I have to go now, duty calls," he announced, calling the waiter.

The pony brought the bill. The commissioner paid, leaving a generous tip, and then said goodbye to the doctor.

"Ah, Riddle..." Soul sighed.

Meeting the commissioner in this quiet place, so agitated and restless, disturbed Soul's peace of mind. He wanted to calm down here, soberly assess the situation. Focus on finding a way to understand the murderer, known as the shadow. The case hit him again. He was overwhelmed by anxiety and anger once more.

"That damn clever bastard thinks he's better than us? Better than me? Thinks I won't figure him out?" he thought. "He's wrong, he has no idea how wrong he is. I failed once. It won't happen again. You can be sure of that, shadow."

He signaled the pony in the tailcoat to bring him the bill. He counted out the required amount, plus another generous tip. He thanked for the meal and left the bistro. The afternoon wind once again pierced him with its chill.

"How am I supposed to focus on this case when I keep running into that irritated commissioner? Damn it! Riddle, what's wrong with you? You were always calm, and now what? Your anxiety disrupts my entire train of thought."

The doctor headed in a direction he knew well. He dismissed thoughts of the commissioner, of the murderer, and walked on. He hadn't been there in a long time. Would he be welcomed as warmly as always? Would he be thrown out? Perhaps the door wouldn't even be opened? These thoughts now occupied the psychologist's mind.

Heavy clouds covered the sky. The initial small droplets falling from the sky quickly turned into a heavy downpour. However, by then, Soul was already in one of the residential skyscrapers. He headed towards one of the elevators. He knew it so well. He knew this place as well as his own home. Even the doorman was surprised to see him after such a long absence. But Soul didn't have time for him. He just nodded in greeting and kept walking.

The eleventh floor. He got out of the elevator. He stood on the shiny, polished floor. An apartment building. He took a few steps. He was in no hurry. He knew he would be at home. After a moment, he stood in front of massive, wooden, decorated doors. The same as dozens of others on the floor. Number eleven thousand five. He pressed the doorbell.

Every second of waiting felt like an hour. But after a moment, he heard footsteps. The lock clicked. The door opened slightly. A light red pegasus appeared before his eyes.

"Soul..." she said with surprise.

"Hello, Sally," he replied.

The mare smiled.

"It's been a long time," she began.

"That's true..." he replied.

The pegasus looked him over. She opened the door wider and gestured for him to enter. Soul slowly stepped into the apartment. He looked around. Nothing had changed. It was as clean as always. Tasteful, decorated furniture, equally intricate white curtains, and shiny dark red drapes. It was one of the smaller apartments, yet it surprised with its spaciousness. Three large rooms, including a bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, and living room. The highest standard. There were still dozens of such apartment buildings in Manehattan.

"I heard about your wife, I'm sorry for your loss," Sally began as they sat on the couch in the living room.

"I didn't come here to talk about my wife," Soul replied harshly.

Sally smiled.

"Relax. Your problems don't reach here," she replied in a calm voice. "What would you like to drink?" she asked.

"Do you have whiskey?"

"What kind of question is that?" she laughed. "Of course I do. I know what you like," she replied, smiling.

Soul felt a bit more confident. When he was here, he never thought about work, never worried about problems. This was his little sanctuary, where he could find solace and peace. And also passion.

The mare handed him a glass of whiskey. They looked at each other in silence, taking a sip of the alcohol.

"Are you working on that case?"

Soul nodded affirmatively.

"But I don't want to talk about it. It's nothing interesting. Just another routine investigation," he added.

"You don't look so good, Soul..."

The unicorn smiled strangely.

"But you look as beautiful as always," he replied.

The mare smiled coquettishly.

"Complimenter, as always," she giggled.

They moved closer to each other.

"Pretty mares deserve compliments," he replied, brushing her neck.

Sally giggled.

"Gentle and sensual, just as I know you."

The mare kissed Soul, and the stallion reciprocated. They embraced, brushing their lips against each other's bodies.

***

Riddle carried another coffee to his desk. Right behind him, Myst entered his office. The pegasus sat down on one of the chairs.

"What do you think about Soul? Will he manage with this profile? It's been so long, and he hasn't given us any clues," the commissioner's partner began.

The detective sighed, then took a big gulp of coffee.

"I don't know, Myst... I don't know anything. Although he's determined to redeem himself for the previous case, I have a feeling he's burned out..."

Myst pondered.

"But you know he was the best. He's all we've got left," he added.

"I know... he was the best. Now even he can't give us any clues," Myst stated.

"We have no one else with such knowledge and experience. He'll come up with something. Believe me," Riddle replied.

"Hopefully soon, we don't know when this psychopath will strike."

"Hopefully soon," the commissioner echoed.

"Alright, time for me to go. Don't stay too long at work. Your wife will scold you again," he joked.

"Yeah... I'd rather slog through these documents than listen to her complain," the detective replied.

Myst chuckled.

"See you tomorrow, Commissioner!" he called on his way out.

"Yeah, see you..." Riddle replied.

He took another sip of coffee. He looked at the notes, expert opinions, and test results. He browsed through the photos.

***

The evening chill somewhat sobered up the unicorn. The alcohol still buzzed in his head. Although they hadn't drunk much, his body reacted as if he had downed the whole bottle. However, after walking a few streets, Soul felt better. The cold and fresh air restored the clarity of his mind. Along with it, the problems returned, and him, the shadow.

"Where are you now? Where will you strike?" he wondered.

Large puddles from the earlier downpour lay on the sidewalks and streets. Soul walked carefully, trying not to step into one. While avoiding another puddle, he tripped over a protruding sidewalk slab and stumbled. He bumped into a passing stallion. The stallion caught him with magic and steadied him.

"Are you okay, buddy?" he asked.

"Yes, thanks...," Soul replied, somewhat embarrassed.

The pony smiled, then deactivated the magic field and continued on his way. Soul stood in place for a moment longer.

"Could it be him?" he wondered. "No, Soul, that's paranoia... just an ordinary Manehattanite," he scolded himself mentally.

***

Riddle massaged his temple, sitting at a large table in the archival section of the station. The archive was located on the fourth floor of the building, occupying the entire floor. Soundproof windows effectively muffled any sounds coming from outside. The commissioner had drawn the curtains and was hunched over a pile of open folders. Next to him stood an empty coffee pot and a plate with crumbs from some pastry.

In this silence, he didn't notice when morning came. There was a knock on the door. Riddle, pulled from a half-sleep, raised his head to look at the clock. It was half-past seven.

"Come in..." he said in a tired voice. Myst entered the room. He skillfully maneuvered between the archival shelves with many boxes, marked according to a scheme established years ago.

"Riddle... buddy... have you gone mad? You've been here all night?" he asked.

"As you can see..."

Myst shook his head. He looked at the folders.

"Got anything?"

"Do you remember the Path Marker case? That guide?" the commissioner asked.

Myst pondered.

"I vaguely remember, he lured victims to deserted areas and murdered them?"

"Raped, then murdered," the detective added. "Do you remember he supposedly died in a chase?"

"Supposedly... I remember. Do you think he's back?"

"The method of murder is identical. Throat slitting. I went through the photos. I'm not an expert, I'll have it analyzed, but to me, the cuts are identical..."

Myst looked at the photographs.

"But... he would be fifty years old today, do you think he would still have such agility?" he asked.

"He worked physically for fifteen years. Then he took a course to become a guide. He was hardened. I think even at that age, he would be able to deliver such precise blows. It's something like his own style of murder. It remains unchanged, it's a characteristic feature of murderers..."

Myst pondered.

"No one has mentioned him for a long time, no one has heard of him... where did he live?"

"Somewhere in the center."

"These freaks are really strange. I bet he had to show up there. If he hasn't changed too much, someone might have recognized him."

Riddle stretched.

"He's our type. I just don't know what motivates him. I'll give these documents to our doctor. Let him make use of them," he stated.

Myst reviewed Path Marker's documentation.

"I'll take a few stallions and we'll look around Fishers Street. We'll ask around, sniff around."

Riddle nodded in approval.

***

At the reception, the commissioner learned that Dr. Soul hadn't returned for the night. The room key was hanging on the board. The entry and exit log showed that he hadn't been at the hotel since he left with the detective to inspect the crime scene.

"Thank you very much," the stallion replied.

"Probably went to the hospital. Workaholic," he thought.

Soul's usual workplace was only a few kilometers from the hotel. However, Riddle decided to call a cab to save time. He had important documents to deliver. After a few minutes of driving, they stopped at the large brick hospital building. He told the cab driver to wait. He headed to the main entrance. He noticed a familiar face coming out. The stallion was holding a pack of cigarettes.

"Excuse me... Doctor... Silver..." the commissioner began.

"Silver Stylus," the pony replied, putting the cigarette back in the pack. "Can I help you?"

"I'm Commissioner Riddle Crusher. We've met before."

"Oh yes, sorry, I didn't recognize you," the doctor replied, shaking the detective's hoof. "What brings you here?"

"I'm looking for Dr. Soul, is he somewhere around the ward?"

"Soul? He's on leave until the end of the week. He's not here."

"Are you sure? I thought he might have dropped by to see what's happening during his absence."

The stallion in the lab coat pondered.

"No... I'm almost sure I haven't seen him..." Silver replied. "But I'll check."

The doctor headed into the hospital lobby.

"Scripty!" he called to the receptionist on the other side.

"Yes?!"

"Has Dr. Soul been here today?"

"No, he hasn't been here!" came the response.

"Now I'm sure Dr. Soul hasn't been here today," Silver replied.

"I understand... thank you..."

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"No... we must have missed each other, but if Soul shows up here, please inform him that I'm expecting him in my office. It's an urgent matter."

"Of course, if he shows up, I'll let him know. And I'll personally escort him out. He was supposed to be on leave."

Riddle smiled.

"Thank you for your cooperation," he said as he left.

"You're welcome, have a nice day," Silver replied, taking out a cigarette.

***

The commissioner entered his office. He hung up his coat and started the coffee machine. On the desk lay documents from recent cases, brought from the archives. In the bags still rested the folder with Path Marker's files.

The detective sat down in the chair. He closed his eyes for a moment. There was a nervous knock on the door.

"Come in!"

A young mare, a pegasus with dark yellow fur and a lightly toned mane, slipped into the office.

"Commissioner... this morning another likely victim of the shadow was discovered," she announced.

Riddle was as if struck by lightning. He sprang from the chair.

"Street?!"

"Yiris."

The detective looked at the map. It was quite far from Fishers. Not what he expected. Unconsciously, he glanced at the pinned locations. They marked the shadow's crime scenes. They formed a circle.

"Thank you, I'll be there right away. Do you have the documents for me?"

The mare handed him a folder with basic information. He quickly reviewed it to know exactly where to go.

***

After a few minutes of driving, the detective arrived at the scene. Yiris Street. Almost the newest district of the city. Once profitable factories, after serving their best years, were demolished, and in their place, housing estates for the nouveau riche ponies and shopping galleries were built. Not everything was finalized yet, but the apartments sold like hotcakes. One of the uninstalled and unfinished elements was the security system. Although the guard booths were ready, due to unfavorable tenders, they were not staffed. Simply put, no one was guarding this wealthy estate.

Riddle looked around. The towering apartment buildings certainly stood out from the city's skyline. Designed by one of those famous architects who came from some town whose name couldn't even be pronounced. The commissioner headed to the given address. The technicians were already there. The apartment was on the fourth floor.

The commissioner looked around the apartment. Nothing new. A body lying in a pool of blood, a quick and sure cut. He just glanced at the technicians to know that, once again, they found nothing. Riddle was on the verge of breaking something. The anger that had built up in him was almost like a volcano. It lacked a small impulse to erupt. However, he knew it wouldn't help. Not here, not at the crime scene.

After further inspections, questioning neighbors, the doorman, even the cleaners who weren't in the building at the time of the murder, the commissioner was left with nothing again. Detailed questioning of the victim's mother was out of the question. She was so shaken that she probably didn't even know her own name. After a few exhausting hours, Riddle sat down for a moment.

"If it's you, Path Marker, why are you doing this again?" Riddle whispered to himself.

Suddenly, something clicked in his mind.

"Wait, who did the psychological profile?" he wondered. He looked into his bag, hoping he still had the documents for Soul. He flipped through them. "Yes! Soul!" In the "Perpetrator Profile" section was the doctor's name.

"But... why didn't he think of it himself? It's one of his cases..." he pondered again. "He lost his family... no one, not even him, would be able to think clearly."

"I'm going back to the station," he said, wondering why the street name seemed familiar.

***

Myst entered Riddle's office. Not finding his superior, he poured himself a cup of coffee. Hours of walking around Fishers had exhausted him. He looked at his notebook. The residents of Fishers were exceptionally talkative. It turned out that some were almost sure they had seen Path Marker in the area, and one even claimed to have spoken to him. He was even willing, for a few bits, to reveal what the wanted pony had asked him. However, after a few basic questions about anatomical features that couldn't have changed, the would-be swindler learned what he faced for giving false testimony. His memory seemed to worsen, and his certainty about talking to Path somewhat diminished.

Myst wasn't entirely sure that Path, considered dead by everyone, had been in the area. However, there were some clues. And in this case, which had so few leads, a clue was almost as good as a key piece of evidence.

The pegasus took another sip of coffee when Riddle burst into the office.

"Got anything?" he asked without any ceremony.

"A few ponies claim that Path Marker probably appeared in the area. They described him a bit vaguely, but some details match," Myst reported.

Riddle pondered. He looked at the map.

"Do you know who did his psychological profile?" he asked.

"Soul?"

Riddle nodded.

"I think that bastard found out somehow who helped track him down. He killed his family, and now, knowing there's no one better than him in the city, he's playing with him," Riddle stated.

"Interesting..."

"I made a damn mistake involving Soul in this," he added.

"Nothing can be done about it now. What does he think about the situation?"

"I couldn't find him. He wasn't at the hotel or the hospital."

Myst bit his lip.

"Did he get him?"

"Hopefully not..." Riddle replied.

"But... why would he go after the doctor?"

"Path's a psycho. Soul discovered some personality disorders in him. The bastard might have thought it would be fun to torment the psychologist who figured him out and identified him as a suspect. You know well that murderers are a treasure trove for psychologists."

Myst pondered.

"Give me his latest photos. I'll have them processed. We'll age him a few years and issue a wanted poster. We have no time to lose."

Riddle handed his companion a photo of Path Marker. Blue eyes, dark gray fur, and a friendly smile. It was so easy for him to deceive his victims. His appearance was pleasant and trustworthy. Trust that ended with accommodation a few meters underground.

"In six hours, the whole city will be plastered with these like a Christmas tree," Myst said as he left the office.

Riddle looked again at the rather thick folder of Path Marker. Seven proven crimes, three suspicions. He was a mountain guide in the northern part of the state. He didn't belong to any organization, didn't work for anyone. He guided tourists, made profits from it. And he killed. He chose young victims. He usually killed by slitting their throats. He laid the bodies on the edge of cliffs and watched the blood slowly flow over the limestone. Photos from these places terrified even experienced investigators. A typical psychopath. His personality changed without much reason. Sometimes he was the best guide in the region, sometimes a ruthless murderer. After all, so many couples, groups, safely returned under his care. Why did he kill? For the sight of flowing blood. He wanted the entire northern mountains to be covered in red.

This was according to the profile prepared by Soul. The fact that Path studied at an art academy suggested it to him. For him, murders were supposed to be art.

"Fucking painter..." Riddle cursed. "Your style has changed, bastard... bloodstains are no longer so majestic, huh?"

Unconsciously, he looked at the map. He looked at the pins marking Path's murder sites. Lotników Equestrii Street. Nomia Street, Nightfall, and the last one, Yiris.

Riddle seemed to freeze for a moment. He looked at the desk, dug out the appropriate folder, and flipped through its contents. His gaze stopped on one of the lines.

"There's something else..."

***

Darkness fell quickly. Heavy clouds rolled across the sky, blocking the last rays of the sun and obscuring the moonlight. Street lamps illuminated the streets. When the vehicle stopped, Riddle was the first to jump out. Dressed in a uniform and a bulletproof vest, he stood before the squad.

"There is likely a murderer in the building. We act quickly and quietly. Just like in training. Open fire on command, or in response to an attack. Full focus, we don't need civilian casualties. Understood?"

He was answered by simultaneous nods from six ponies. The Manehattan Police's SWAT team. The pride of the state's security department. The best-trained unicorns in Equestria. Even Canterlot couldn't boast such a well-organized squad.

The building in the familiar district on Yiris Street was surrounded. Exits were blocked, and two unicorns placed a barrier blocking the magic of civilians and the potential murderer. Only horns with a special enhancing cover could do anything here.

The eleventh floor. Doors like dozens on the floor. This was the squad's target. Two pegasi hovered outside the windows. Thick curtains made it impossible to see inside. It was only known that someone was in the room. The light was on.

The squad teleported to the corridor one by one. Silently, they moved to the target doors. Suddenly, other doors opened on the opposite side. An elderly mare peeked out, probably intending to take a walk. One of the unicorns in a dark uniform acted instantly, jumping to the mare, using a sleeping spell on her, and cushioning her fall. The whole thing took fractions of a second. The formation was complete again.

Riddle stood right in front of the doors. Five seconds. In the next few moments, two squads would enter the room. Three seconds. They would neutralize the murderer and secure the area. One second.

The sound of breaking glass mixed with the crash of doors being kicked in. In an instant, five figures burst into the nearly empty room. Two pegasi and three unicorns.

Riddle was the first to enter the room. Time seemed to slow down; among the figures bursting in, amidst shards of glass and door frame, he saw the murderer delivering a fatal blow, a streak of blood cut through the air, the face of the young mare showed a mixture of terror and surprise, the moment lasted fractions of a second, the commissioner gave the order to shoot, as the glass touched the floor, another thunder filled the room. The chestnut stallion staggered, and a spurt of blood from his neck splattered the wall.

When the thunder subsided, one of the unicorns rushed to the mare, immediately focusing magic on the deep cut, trying to stop the bleeding. One of the pegasi jumped to the injured unicorn, but was instantly pushed back with incredible force.

"HA... hahahaha..." came from behind the couch. "Riddle..."

The commissioner held a ready-to-fire weapon in his aura.

"Soul... you bastard..."

The chestnut unicorn stood up. He had an identical cover on his horn as the strike team.

"Riddle... Riddle... Riddle... you figured it out... nice," Soul began in a distant voice.

"My worst suspicion came true..." Riddle replied.

The strike team had the doctor in their sights. The injured mare gasped occasionally.

"So this is how a murderer feels..." Soul spoke again, tilting his head back and savoring the moment. He took a deep breath. The wound on his neck was bleeding. "You know what, Riddle? It's an amazing feeling... So... cleansing," he replied, looking at the commissioner.

"You're sick, Soul. Surrender."

"Sick? I've never felt better. I finally understand all the motives of murderers, I understand what was previously a mystery to me. It's... so simple, Riddle, murderers are so simple..." he added, laughing softly.

Riddle gave a few orders with discreet gestures. Two unicorns began to move slightly away from each other.

"I admit, Soul... you played us nicely. You led us to Path Marker. He's dead, isn't he?"

"How should I know? Path is just a common psycho, like many others, he was easy to figure out. But it took you a long time, Riddle. See how weak you are? I figured him out in a few hours, and you? How long did it take you? You probably devoted yourself entirely to work, huh? Did your wife mention divorce again?"

Riddle winced. Soul knew about his problems at home. When they met for a beer, everything came out word by word.

"What do you want to achieve by airing my dirty laundry, Soul? You're surrounded, you won't escape."

"Who said I want to escape, Riddle my friend, you underestimate me. I will always be loyal to authority. Didn't you want me to catch the murderer? To create a profile for you? Here it is. I am your murderer. I know what he thought, I know what he felt, slaughtering those mares."

Riddle involuntarily looked at the lying victim. The magical aura on her neck was stopping the bleeding and easing the pain. The unicorn was controlling her condition.

"Surrender. It's over, Soul."

"Over? This is just the beginning. I figured out his motives, I figured out the shadow's way of acting, Riddle, aren't you happy?"

"This is the end of your murders, Soul, you'll face the death penalty for this."

Soul laughed.

"I have the full profile of the shadow, don't you want to look at my notes? Don't you want to know what else I'll add there? Riddle, this is his end, we'll catch him..." he added, his voice suddenly breaking.

The commissioner looked at the doctor's horn. The magical aura still surrounded it. At any moment, he could launch an attack. He knew that to incapacitate Soul, he had to deactivate the magic. Soul wasn't a trained mage, he couldn't activate magic as quickly as Riddle's subordinates.

"Soul, surrender. Deactivate the magic field. You don't stand a chance against us."

The doctor looked strangely at the commissioner. He looked around the room. He seemed to realize what was happening. One of the pegasi lay unconscious in the corner of the room, the other aimed at him with a weapon, as did three other unicorns and two covering the rear. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the slight movement of the approaching mage.

"Riddle?" he asked strangely.

"Deactivate the magic field!" the detective ordered.

Soul's horn suddenly lit up. The silence was filled with the crack of teleportation. Simultaneously, the room was filled with the sound of three gunshots.

***

Myst sipped his morning coffee. Riddle, as usual, stretched out in his chair. The desk was empty. There was no folder on it. Nor a cup.

"I don't understand something, Riddle. Did Soul not understand what he was doing?"

"Who knows? Maybe he was just pretending, maybe he really wasn't aware of those crimes. I'm not a psychologist, I'm not in his head."

Myst looked at the map. The circle of pins was closed.

"That last pin might not be needed; the victim survived."

Riddle also looked at the map.

"Leave it. Too bad I didn't look at it more often. The center of the circle is the hospital."

Myst examined the notes on the hanging cards. They had the names of the streets in the order of the murders and the times they were committed. He took a sip of coffee.

"And no traces... were those his hospital boots?"

Riddle nodded.

"The last attempt breaks the pattern..." the pegasus stated.

"Indeed," Riddle replied.

"What does it mean? That his mind broke down at the end?"

Riddle shrugged.

"I said I'm not a psychologist. It's possible. He broke the pattern because something in him snapped. What he was hiding came to the surface and disrupted the whole operation."

Myst pondered.

"Quite logical."

"The mind of a murderer is a constantly changing puzzle. It's like putting together puzzles whose shapes keep changing. This game never ends. You figure out one piece, another one appears that surprises and confuses you."

Myst finished his coffee.

"What's the condition of that... Sally?" Riddle asked.

"Stable. Reviever did a great job. The rascal didn't lose his cool."

"They are, after all, the best stormtroopers in the whole country. Their skills don't surprise me."

"Yes... our skills are being wasted here, Riddle. What are we even doing here? Instead of participating in actions across the country, we're guarding one city..."

Riddle sighed.

"The best results are achieved on your own turf. When you know this city, its customs and rhythm, nothing surprises you."

Myst smiled.

"You are right, captain."

Riddle bared his teeth.

"How I hate that title."

***

There was quite a commotion in front of the city's main police station. Journalists gathered in a large group, waiting for a comment on the latest high-profile case. A pony stood on the opposite side of the busy street, watching the entire commotion. A light drizzle justified pulling up the hood. A shadow of a smile briefly appeared on his face. After a few moments, the pony turned and walked forward, stopping a few meters further at a small fruit stand.

"Can I get you something?" asked the stand owner.

"I'll take half a kilogram of apples."