The police station's briefing room was far too quiet for that hour of the morning.
Cold fluorescent light reflected off the long table, where reports, photographs, and tablets were scattered.
At the center of the main wall, a whiteboard was filled with images, red lines, circled names, and intersecting arrows—
All converging at a single point.
Eric.
Inspector Pedro Lopez entered without greeting anyone.
His face carried the weight of sleepless nights—
And a growing irritation he no longer bothered to hide.
"Let's begin."
The agents exchanged glances.
"I want a full summary of everything that's happened in the past few days. No omissions."
One of the investigators, Morales, spoke first.
"We've confirmed nineteen deaths linked to Emir Kaya's mercenary group. Eight in the main warehouse, four in an abandoned workshop, three in a rented apartment, and the rest in scattered locations on the outskirts."
"All killed in a similar way," another agent added. "Blunt force trauma. Extremely high-impact injuries. Some with multiple fractures inconsistent with conventional combat."
Pedro crossed his arms.
"Any weapons registered?"
"None used against them. Only shots fired by the victims themselves, likely during the confrontation."
"Survivors?"
"None."
Silence returned.
Pedro exhaled slowly.
"Other countries?"
"Interpol is monitoring. Two of the deceased had records tied to operations in Eastern Europe. Turkish and German authorities have requested information sharing."
Pedro ran a hand over his face.
"Is there any way to prove a direct connection between Eric Santos and these deaths?"
The agents shook their heads.
"He was hospitalized when part of the killings occurred," Morales replied.
"And before that?"
"We have footage of him running with the Chinese woman in his arms near a roadside. But there's no record of him inside the warehouse."
Pedro clenched his jaw.
"He appears running like an Olympic athlete, carrying an unconscious person. Then trained mercenaries end up dead. And no one sees anything?"
No one answered.
"Change of lifestyle," Pedro continued, shifting direction. "Details."
Another agent opened a report.
"In the last fifteen days, Eric has moved amounts incompatible with his financial history. He bought and sold a business, rented a high-end residence, paid for private hospital care upfront, and hired a secure transport company."
Pedro leaned over the table.
"Transport… for what?"
"Coins."
"What kind of coins?"
"Common coins. Euros."
Pedro blinked.
"Common coins?"
"Yes, Inspector. In large quantities."
"And then?"
"Part of those coins disappears from local circulation. Meanwhile, small amounts of gold begin appearing in transactions—always in short intervals."
Pedro stood still for a moment.
"Gold?"
"Yes. Gold coins marked with an 'X.'"
The tension in the room increased.
"Quantity?" Pedro asked—already knowing he wouldn't like the answer.
"We estimate over a thousand gold coins have circulated among merchants connected to him, directly or indirectly."
Pedro exhaled heavily.
"That gold cannot be appearing out of nowhere."
He slammed his hand against the table.
"Unless he's discovered a machine that produces gold!"
The shout echoed through the room.
The agents lowered their eyes.
"Has anyone found concrete proof of where this money is coming from?" Pedro asked, his voice now quieter—
And more dangerous.
Silence.
"Suspicious bank records?"
"No."
"Illegal transfers?"
"No."
"Tax fraud?"
"No evidence."
Pedro began pacing.
"So we have a college student who, within days, starts moving hundreds of thousands of euros, gets involved with international mercenaries, trades gold, and appears near a massacre scene."
He stopped in the center of the room.
"And we have nothing."
Morales took a risk.
"He might be working for someone bigger."
Pedro turned his head slowly.
"Or he is the bigger one."
The sentence hung in the air.
Another agent added:
"His lawyer, Lucía Herrera, has also moved unusual amounts. And his partner, Elena Lin, has rapidly expanded her pawn business."
"All lines converge," Pedro murmured.
He looked again at the whiteboard.
Warehouse photos.
Blurry footage of Eric running.
Ambulance records.
Bank statements.
Images of Emir Kaya.
Red lines connecting everything.
"Continue monitoring," Pedro ordered. "Discreet surveillance. No direct approach—for now."
"And if he tries to leave the country?"
"I want immediate alerts."
One agent hesitated.
"Inspector… do you really believe he killed all those men?"
Pedro didn't answer immediately.
He stared at the enlarged image of Eric's blurred face from the roadside camera.
The eyes—
Even distorted—
Seemed wrong.
Empty.
Or too focused.
"I don't know what he did," Pedro said finally.
"But I know he's at the center of it."
He dismissed the team with a gesture.
When he was alone, he walked into his office.
Closed the door.
The lighting was dimmer there.
Only daylight from the window illuminated the large investigation board on the wall.
He approached slowly.
At the center—
Eric Santos was circled in red.
Around him—
Threads connected:
Emir Kaya.
Dead mercenaries.
Gold coins marked with an "X."
Elena Lin.
Lucía Herrera.
Secure transport.
Financial shift.
Pedro placed both hands on the desk.
"Gold doesn't appear out of nowhere…" he murmured.
He picked up a recent report and reread a detail:
"Witnesses report local merchants were being paid 30% above market value for common coins."
Pedro closed his eyes.
"Why would anyone pay more… for ordinary money?"
The question was simple.
But nothing in this case was.
He opened a drawer and took out a photograph.
A gold coin.
Marked with an X.
The mark was subtle.
But consistent.
Standardized.
"This is organized," he said quietly.
He returned to the board.
Took a new red string.
Connected the coin—
To Eric's name.
Then stepped back.
The pattern was there.
No proof.
No confirmed crime.
But a pattern.
And Pedro Lopez trusted patterns more than coincidences.
He sat down slowly.
Picked up the phone.
"I want 24-hour surveillance," he said. "Not just him. The two women as well."
He hung up.
Leaned back in his chair.
Outside, the city moved as usual.
But something was forming.
And he could feel it.
This wasn't just a homicide case.
It was the beginning of something bigger.
And if he was right—
Eric Santos wasn't just a suspect.
He was the epicenter.
Pedro looked once more at the board.
The red lines almost seemed to pulse.
He had no proof.
Not yet.
But he had instinct.
And his instinct told him—
That young man hadn't just gotten rich.
He had found something—
That shouldn't exist.
And Pedro Lopez had no intention of stopping—
Until he found out what.