Chapter Text
Barcelona was no longer what it used to be.
The city, despite its lights, had grown strangely dim, as if the light itself were merely a trick, hiding behind glass façades.
On one of the worn sidewalks, the detective stood with cold steadiness, eyes fixed on the entrance of a building wrapped in yellow police tape.
It felt as though every step was being counted now, not because he was guilty, but because he was the one searching for who was.
Pedri G.
Special Investigator in Complex Crimes.
That’s what the internal records said.
But he knew better, what was written no longer defined him accurately.
A year ago, when his car flipped on a highway, everything changed.
He survived… but he didn’t come back the same.
Face blindness.
A heavy medical term that meant he could no longer see faces properly.
He looked at people as if they wore blank masks.
But he did not give in.
Instead, he decided to learn how to see without seeing.
To tune into voices, hand gestures, the subtle shifts in tone, the way people walked, the scent they left behind, the words they chose… every detail others passed over without noticing.
Since then, he had become even sharper.
He glanced again at the body before him.
A woman, in her thirties, showed no signs of resistance.
The same signature, identical to the previous two murders
A deep cut across the carotid artery.
Eyes closed.
Body lying still on the floor as if in sleep.
Hands folded across a small wooden frame laid carefully on her stomach, inside it a preserved butterfly.
He shut his eyes.
He didn’t need to see more.
The same killer… leaving his signature once again.
The voice of his colleague, Mario, snapped him from his thoughts.
— “It’s the third one in under a month.
And still no clear lead, The victims are all different ages, not even the same gender, This man… or woman, or whoever it is, acts with a strange confidence.”
Pedri responded in a quiet, unsettling calm
— “Because he knows us, Or maybe… he knows how we investigate, His victims share nothing in common.”
He stared at the wooden frame a little longer, then said
— “Get a thorough analysis of every detail at the crime scene, I want a list of every place that’s sold preserved butterflies in the last six months…And any workshop that crafts small wooden frames by hand.”
— “You think… he prepares the piece himself?”
— “I think he’s an artist, And killing isn’t enough for him,He creates his final scene… with precision.”
By midnight, Pedri returned to his apartment.
He didn’t sleep much.
His mind never quieted, and his body couldn’t tolerate stillness.
Since he lost the ability to recognize faces, the world had become lonelier, more deceptive.
Sometimes, he would look at old photos , himself among friends and colleagues, unable to identify a single one.
It was as if life had leaked from his eyes, leaving him isolated amid the crowd.
he wanted to try something different.
He went out alone, no coat, no direction, and his feet carried him to the outskirts of the city.
There, on the corner of a quiet street, a small café caught his attention with its warm lighting.
The place wasn’t popular… but something about it was magnetic.
Maybe the solitude.
Or the dim light.
Or maybe he was just tired of chasing faces he could never grasp.
He pushed the door open, a soft chime rang out.
His steps met clean wooden floors and the scent of warm coffee.
He sat in a quiet corner and spoke in a low voice
— “Black coffee, No sugar.”
He didn’t lift his head.
But the one who brought him the coffee… was staring intently.
He didn’t know his name yet.
But he didn’t need it to feel that strange pull toward him.
His face was still, movements precise, his voice oddly calm.
And yet… there was something different about him.
He smiled and said playfully as he placed the cup down
— “Coffee with nothing at all, huh…I’d recommend a piece of cake to balance the bitterness.”
Pedri didn’t reply, but he lifted his head for a moment.
He couldn’t recognize his features.
But he… memorized his voice.
From that day on, Pedri became a regular.
Every morning, or evening, depending on the investigation, he’d come, sit in the same corner, and order the same coffee.
And he?
He began waiting for him.
He would sometimes sketch him from afar, or silently observe his movements.
One day, he quietly approached and slipped a napkin onto the table, then walked away to serve another customer.
Pedri looked at him, puzzled, then unfolded the napkin.
It was a drawing.
Detailed.
Silent.
Unusually precise.
Him.
Sitting as he always did, coffee in hand, eyes half closed, with the window behind completing the scene.
But what stunned him wasn’t the skill in the lines…
It was that, for the first time in a year, he could see his own face.
He recognized it.
Identified each feature with clarity.
As if the drawing had somehow cut through his neurological fog… and restored order.
How?
Had his eyes betrayed him?
Or had this young man… somehow healed him?
His gaze instinctively searched for him, he found him at a nearby table, jotting something down.
He was there, moving gently and swiftly… but still, his features were a blur.
Only the drawing gave him shape.
As if it were his only mirror.
Pedri folded the napkin and placed it in his pocket.
He didn’t know why he didn’t throw it away.
But he didn’t.
Hours later, the waiter approached again.
He came quietly, voice low, tone uncertain, somewhere between casual and intentional.
— “Did you like the coffee?”
Pedri stopped writing, closed his notebook slowly.
His tone was calm… but heavier than usual.
— “As always.”
He noticed a subtle shift in the waiter’s posture, like something inside him eased, even if just for a moment.
— “Great…”
He hesitated, then added in a softer voice
— “Did you see the drawing?”
Pedri paused, didn’t answer right away.
As if the question had stirred a tension he had tried to bury.
— “Yes.”
Then, after a moment
— “Thank you.”
It was a bland reply, unworthy of what he had seen.
But he couldn’t find the words to express what he felt.
How could he tell him that… he had seen himself for the first time in a long time?
That his features, on paper, were clearer than any reflection?
The waiter spoke again, gently, without demanding anything
— “You’re beautiful, I couldn’t help myself.”
Suddenly, it felt like the air left his lungs.
Pedri didn’t reply.
And the waiter didn’t wait for one.
He slipped away quietly to another table, as if he’d left no trace…
But he had.
Days later.
The night was bitterly cold, and no customers had come in for nearly three hours, so he decided to close early.
He hummed old songs as he wiped the tables and gathered the half empty cups.
The quiet was broken by the soft voice of a news anchor on the small TV in the corner
— “Joining us now is Detective Pedri, in charge of the Butterfly Killer case.
Detective, tell us, any new leads on the murderer who has terrified the entire city?”
The detective sighed, then spoke calmly
— “As I said, the investigation is still ongoing, I cannot share any details at this time, Thank you.”
And he left.
But the waiter’s eyes didn’t leave the screen.
He froze.
It was him.
The same customer.
His breathing grew uneven.
His hand shook.
Then…
The cup slipped from his grip and crashed to the floor.
He stared at the TV without blinking,
as if he had just heard the most terrifying news of his life.