The cold November wind scraped against the cracked windows of a crumbling apartment complex on the edge of Grayshore City. On the third floor, in a dim room lit only by a flickering desk lamp, Tara Elwood hunched over her notebook, lost in thought. Her pen moved in rapid loops, jotting formulas on one page and scrawling observations about human behavior on another. She didn't hear the sirens outside anymore. She was used to them.
Grayshore had always been a city of shadows—broken streets, broken homes, and stories that rarely had happy endings. And Tara had learned to survive in its margins.
Her mother, once a hopeful artist, now worked part-time at a laundromat. Her father—well, no one really knew where he was. He had left when Tara was ten and hadn't been seen since. Rumor had it he drank himself into a corner of the city no one dared to walk. Tara never asked questions. She didn't need to. Her eyes were sharp. Her ears were sharper. She noticed things no one else did.
Despite everything, she had clawed her way into Grayshore Community College, scraping by on scholarships and her part-time job at the library. Most students treated her like she was invisible—except when they needed answers during exams.
Smart. Quiet. A little strange. That's how people described her.
Or, as some whispered cruelly behind her back: "Freak."
But Tara didn't care. Not really.
She had other things on her mind.
Like why her neighbor down the hall always left his apartment at 3:07 a.m.
Or why the cat lady on the second floor screamed names that didn't exist.
Or why, two nights ago, she heard the sound of digging beneath the floorboards.
Things didn't add up. And Tara liked solving things that didn't add up.
At school, things weren't much better. Her sharp mind made her a target.
She'd tried speaking up once, in Criminology class, when the professor asked the students to analyze a recent homicide case. While others offered textbook answers, Tara calmly described the killer's possible mental profile, the likely disposal route, and even the reason why the murder weapon hadn't been found. It was detailed. It was disturbing. And it was… accurate.
Too accurate.
The professor went quiet.
Her classmates stared.
And from that day forward, the nickname "Murder Girl" stuck.
They laughed. She didn't.
That afternoon, she sat alone in the cafeteria, chewing on a cold sandwich when she noticed the news on the wall-mounted TV:
"BREAKING: College Student Found Dead in Locker Room. Authorities Suspect Suicide."
Tara stared.
The girl—Maya Kennel—was in her sociology class. They had only spoken once, but Tara remembered her. Bright. Nervous. Covered her wrists with long sleeves even in summer.
She blinked, eyes narrowing.
No. Something felt wrong.
She remembered Maya's eyes during that one conversation. Darting. Frantic. Afraid.
Tara rose from her seat, dumping her tray. She didn't believe in coincidences. She believed in patterns. And this one smelled wrong. Too clean. Too convenient.
Back at home, she opened her battered laptop and began digging.
Autopsy pending. Cause of death: hanging. But the cord used didn't match school-issued materials.
Her locker was locked from the outside.
And Maya's social media accounts had been wiped after the time of death.
Who cleaned her online presence?
And why?
Tara began compiling a file—her own casebook. She would call it Case 01: Maya K.
She didn't know it yet, but this case would be her first step into something much bigger.
A path paved with blood, secrets, and shadows that would try to consume her whole.
And Grayshore?
Grayshore had no idea what was coming.
Because Tara—brilliant, strange, unafraid Tara—had just started watching.
And she never stopped once she started.