"I'd rather be organizing my pebble garden."

It wasn't the blood that bothered Hoper Mairma. It was the irregularity of the sanguine halo around her head, the randomness and the asymmetry of the paint-like red. The fact the third splatter was taller than the fourth and fifth one together, breaking the gradual increasing portrayed by all other splatters from first to last. His right brow twitched involuntarily and made him lift a gloved hand to cover half of his face, clutching it to keep his expression in check. Crouching down next to the corpse, Hoper breathed out deep, his gaze sweeping over the prostitute's lifeless form in an attempt to focus at the task at hand. His hand reflexively drifted up to his less-than-perfectly kept below-ear length hair, running fingers through cream highlighted chocolate locks.

"It doesn't make any sense."

His raspy voice echoed eerily in the slime-slicked sewer exit's lobby. Stating his confusion only made the thought process spin out of control and force Hoper to let out a meek whimper. His valiant attempt to shove away the headache caused by the illogicality of the working girl's death was unsuccessful and the cry evolved into a groan of frustration that was accompanied by a self-punishing tug of hair. The responsibility bestowed on him by the Edict - the ivory-hued stole wrapped around his neck and flowing down to his back on both sides - felt painfully heavy. Had he chosen to be a banker like his father would've wanted, he could have been at home right now; arranging his pebble garden, drinking warm masso and listening to the soothing sound of flutes coming from the music conservatory below his apartment. He could have spent his day off feeling accomplished after a long week at work. But no, Hoper was not at home doing the aforementioned things. He was in a Motherdamned sewer with a dead whore who couldn't even bleed properly. Hoper felt like crying, overwhelmed by post-wise regrets and the throbbing pressure hiding an inch under his skull.

“When in doubt, consult the Edict”. The Academy's thumb rule surfaced from the sea of despair, making the depressed inquisitor flick the stole from over his right shoulder and spread the cloth in between his hands. Laying his eyes on the syllabary inscription stating the duties of the inquisitor, Hoper started mouthing the syllables each of the characters represented painfully slowly. The ritual-like routine of uttering to Edict was evoked once again, the hypnotic chanting of the litany to remind himself of his duties and why he had originally taken them onto himself. And as per usual, by the time he reached the end of the segment, Hoper had acquired a tranquil and productive state befitting a Vaano.

With his newfound clarity, Hoper lowered the gaze of his glacial blue eyes on the corpse. The victim was a Kamor female, approximately sixteen rotations of absolute time; twenty or so rotations in age if she had been a Vaano. The Kamor aged one fifth faster than the others, a befitting curse to compensate for their amazing physical prowess. Her long black hair was tied into pigtails with bright orange silk ribbons, three kamoran cog-shaped bronze earrings in one and two in other ear. She was dressed in a low-cut black leather top, her loins covered by a bright red Aimeha skirt bearing a knotted imprint in fake gold. Her feet were covered in tan ankle-strap cloth sandals, her toes well-kept and painted gold. A tattoo consisting of three crossed daggers had been etched over her lower back where the pronounced spinal ridges of a kamoran ended.

Touching two fingers to the tattoo, Hoper's expression was illuminated as he guessed right. The blood spatters started to make sense slowly, as he realized that the woman had been dead by the time her skull was cracked. The last segment of the woman's spine was dislodged from its place; her back had been broken when she was brought here. Grinning triumphantly, the inquisitor slowly fit the critical piece of the puzzle in its place and let out a long exhale of satisfaction. It had been Haamaco, after all - the broken back was a trademark the kamoran gangster had tried to hide with the cracked skull. Before standing up, Hoper moved his gloved thumb over the third blood spatter emanating from the woman's head and halved its length, making it fit with the rest of the drops.

It all made sense now.