Ebony stared with unblinking eyes at her new partner in crime—well, her partner detective. He was a slim tom with muscles gleaming under his pelt and a spark in his eyes. He seemed rather skilled—Ebony recalled seeing his name in the papers before, and her new partner had an aura of power lingering in the air around him. He knows what he's doing, she thought to herself, ears perking up. Finally someone will...

"Hi, uh, Rowan," she meowed brightly, only pausing for a brief second. "I'm Ebony, from the Overseas. I guess we're partners now."

Rowan looked like he was sleepwalking on his paws, but her words seemed to shake him out of his trance. "Hi Ebony. I guess we are."

They sat in a sauna of awkward silence for another few moments before the phone began to ring. Startled, Rowan scrambled to pick it up, holding it up to his ear. "Hello, I'm Detective Rowan of the Pusa Police Department. How may I help you." He stopped, listening. Ebony observed his jaw go slack. "A... another murder? What's the address again." Balancing the phone by his ear, Rowan pulled out a notepad and quickly scribbled something, eyes lighting with nervousness.

"Gotcha. I'll be down there with Ebony in five minutes."

"What was that about?" the black-furred she-cat asked, tipping her head to the side slightly as she attempted to catch a glimpse at the paper Rowan had torn off and tucked in one paw. 

He flashed her a smile. "Lucky for you, your first day on the job won't be so boring."

x x x

Ebony stared out the tinted window of the police cruiser, her heart thumping in her chest. In the brief minute they spent at a stoplight, Rowan had chronicled the case they would be covering, explaining the report that had come in only three hours prior. Another murder; another blood-soaked rose draped over the corpse. She knew she would be coming face-to-face with a crime-scene, and even though she had spent many of her long days cleaning up suicide scenes and the liking, the scarce thought of this cruel murderer sent shivers deep into her bones.

Rowan pulled into a parking spot, the wheels squealing against the ground. "For a tom so involved with the law," commented Ebony. "You seem to have no respect for traffic violations."

He flashed a grin at her, pulling out a thin card that read "PPD". "I've got my ways of getting around those.... roadblocks, so why should I let them bother me?" Not waiting for an answer, Rowan ducked beneath the yellow tape and into the crime scene. 

The scene was in a dense forest, at a camping spot titled "Thunder Reserve." Nettle, aged 91 moons, was last seen at a nearby gas station, buying antifreeze and decongestant pills—so the old she-cat was hardly innocent from any crime. The body had been discovered at six in the morning by the janitor and at exactly 9:30, Rowan padded up to a wiry brown tabby with an intense expression glowing in his eyes.

"Hi Apple. This is my new partner, Ebony. Ebony, Apple is our head forensic scientist. I guess he's solo right now..."

Ebony was still standing at the edge of the yellow tape. The sickening smell of blood crept in the back of her throat. "H—hi Apple," she stammered slightly, taking a few steps toward the two toms. They were effectively blocking her vision of the body, but she could quite picture it from the nauseating smells drifting from it. 

"Come on in, don't be shy... it's not like you're a greenie. You've seen crime scenes before," Rowan meowed gently, beckoning her with his tail.

"I know. It—it's just..." She trailed off, staring at the yellow time. Her vision grew blurry. "I'm—I don't want to see the Bloody Rose."

Rowan's eyes quickly darkened. "You've been assigned to this case for a reason, and I can smell your lie from a mile away. I don't care about your real intentions, but just get over here and help me out, for StarClan's sake." The tom turned toward the body, pulling out a notepad and beginning to scribble on it.

"Sorry," muttered Ebony, padding up next to him. She kept her breath held as she gazed at the body that laid before them. Nettle wasn't a pretty sight even without the blood—from the picture taped on a tree next to them, the cream-furred cat was extremely skinny and had overly bloodshot eyes. Her fur appeared to almost be falling out, even in the picture on the tree. But the corpse in front of her was an entirely different sight.

The ground had turned from a pale brown into a deep russet from the amount of blood that had been leeched from Nettle's body. A gaping wound was visible on her neck; bones jutted out like a pile of sticks. There were scratches up and down her side, leaking crimson even though it had been quite some time since her death. Ebony held back the urge to gag.

"Got any notes?" Rowan said to her, still jotting on his notebook. He appeared undisturbed by the horrific crime scene. Apple, who was taking a vial of blood from Nettle's neck, also wasn't shaken by the murder. He stepped back to let Ebony get a better look.

The she-cat narrowed her eyes, zooming in on the wound. Claw marks. Definitely claw marks. Not too wide, not too long—this cat knew what they were doing. "Experienced killer," she told him. "Small cat, or average sized. Nettle—er, the victim was probably unconscious when she was attacked. No cat would let anyone get such a precise hit."

"Good, good," Rowan mused, though Ebony noted he didn't add anything to his notes. "Expert killer, yep. Victim unconscious, probable, though Apple took some blood already and will test it for any traces of drugs. Other scratches aren't a sign of struggle—they're too precise for a felling wound. If you look along the backbone, you'll see several faint claw marks in the skin—there's our sign. The victim's scruff has been completely mutilated, as if to remove evidence via teeth-prints." He turned to Apple. 

The wiry brown tabby wordlessly pulled a plastic baggie from his pocket. There was something inside—something red and white and preserved by the bag's flexible shape. 

Rowan took it from the forensic scientist and carefully unzipped the bag, dipping his claw into the plastic. He hooked something on his claw with a measurable amount of caution, setting it on the ground between him and his new partner.

It was a blood-soaked rose. 

By Rio. ⛈