The scent of rain in London that night was not as usual; it carried hints of salty blood and the bitterness of rust. Julian sat in the back of the taxi, his head resting against the cold glass, eyes watching the city lights that looked like tangled threads of purple neon. A headache gnawed at his temples like a sharp instrument, and every time he tried to close his eyes, he saw "The Weaver's" face, whispering coldly: "I am the one who taught you how to read the silence."
They arrived at Scotland Yard. The building was buzzing with unusual activity—officers running with files, forensic technicians carrying sealed bags. Julian strode inside, ignoring Claire's pleas to see the unit doctor. He had one goal: Inspector Thomas Miller's office.
Julian burst into the office without knocking. Miller was sitting behind his massive desk, rubbing his tired face with heavy hands. He didn't look up when Julian entered, instead saying in a gravelly voice, "You crossed a line, Julian. Going to the museum alone was a gamble with your life and the department's reputation."
"Save the heroic myths, Miller," Julian said, tossing his phone onto the desk, the screen displaying the anonymous text message. "Tell me about November 14, 2006. Tell me about the thirty stitches. And tell me why you looked like you'd seen a ghost when The Weaver mentioned Locker 30?"
Miller's body stiffened. A heavy silence filled the room, a silence Julian tried to penetrate with his mental ability, but he hit a wall of cluttered chaos in Miller's mind. There were old images of smashed police cars, the sound of a woman screaming, and the smell of old smoke. Miller was hiding something massive, something buried under tons of bureaucracy.
"That case was closed twenty years ago," Miller finally said, his eyes narrowing. "A suicide of a young tailor named Edward Collins. There's no mystery here, just the tragedy of a man who couldn't handle the pressure of life."
"A tailor who refuses to sew doesn't commit suicide, Miller," Julian countered, leaning over the desk, his voice sharpening. "The Weaver said Number 30 is the number of stitches in the first wound. My mother was killed that year, wasn't she? And the investigation was marked 'unsolved' even though you were the officer in charge of the scene."
Miller stood up abruptly, his massive frame dominating the space. "Get out of my office, Julian. You are suspended until further notice. Trauma has made you delusional, and I won't allow a mind-reading lunatic to destroy my career."
Julian stormed out, eyes blazing. In the hallway, he found Claire waiting. Her features held a mix of anxiety and her usual sharp intelligence. "Julian, I found something. Molly Thompson... she's in Interrogation Room 4, but she refuses to talk to anyone but 'the detective who knows the numbers'."
Julian headed to the interrogation room. Behind the one-way glass, Molly sat with an eerie stillness, her hands clasped on the table, eyes fixed on the door. Julian entered and sat opposite her. He didn't say a word; instead, he closed his eyes and began to "dive."
Molly's mind was strange. It wasn't filled with spontaneous thoughts like normal humans; it was organized mechanically, as if it were a library indexed with extreme precision. Julian began to see blurred images: a man in a long coat talking to her in the dark, touching her forehead with a cold needle, whispering incomprehensible words.
(.. The bag.. Number 30.. The smoke.. You are the clock.. You are the hand.. ..)
"Molly," Julian whispered, "who is the man who visited you in the archives?"
Molly raised her head, her eyes looking empty like polished glass. "No one visited me, sir. I just completed the weave. Number 30 isn't a place; it's a distance. The distance between truth and oblivion."
Suddenly, Molly began to shake, the sound of her bones clicking audible in the room. She started reciting a series of numbers at incredible speed—numbers that sounded familiar to Julian... they were geographical coordinates.
"Claire! Record these numbers!" Julian shouted, trying to hold Molly to prevent her from hurting herself. But Molly stopped suddenly and smiled a smile that didn't belong to her; it was The Weaver's smile. "You're always late, Julian. The old house is waiting for you."
Molly lost consciousness and slumped onto the table. Julian emerged from the room panting, to find Claire holding a piece of paper. "Julian, these coordinates point to an area in North London. The Hampstead area. But the maps say this address was deleted from municipal records after a massive fire in 2006."
"It's my house," Julian said, his voice trembling. "The house where I was born, which my father told me burned down because of an electrical short. The Weaver wants me to go back to the beginning."
Before they could leave, Claire's search results for the Finch and Campbell retirees came in. She found one name: "Arthur Binns," an elderly tailor living in a nursing home. It was said he lost his mind after his colleague Edward Collins' suicide, and he always muttered that "The King demands a garment made of human skin."
"Claire, go to Arthur Binns," Julian ordered. "Take Evelyn with you. I want to know what garment Edward refused to sew. I'm going to the coordinates."
"You're not going alone," Claire protested. "Miller suspended you; he'll take your badge and your gun."
"Let him take them," Julian replied, walking away. "I no longer need a badge to see the purple threads choking this city."
As Julian walked through the police corridors, the hallucinations intensified. He saw a thin purple thread emerging from the receptionist's mouth, stretching to wrap around another officer's neck. He saw a massive "web" of lies connecting everyone. The Weaver was right; the world is full of noise, and everyone contributes to the weave of deception.
Julian took his private car and sped toward Hampstead. The road was dark, and rain fell like cascades of lead. Arriving at the site, he found a vacant lot surrounded by a rusty fence. Amidst the weeds were the remains of charred walls that had withstood time.
Julian stepped out of the car, feeling a violent sting behind his ears. The place was pulsing with memories. He closed his eyes, not trying to read anyone's mind this time, but trying to read "the mind of the place."
Images began to flow: a small child hiding under a table, a woman screaming as she was dragged by her hair, and a masked man holding a long needle. He saw Inspector Miller—a younger version—standing at the door, his face dripping with sweat and fear, watching the crime without lifting a finger.
(.. One stitch.. two stitches.. thirty.. now everyone will be silent.. ..)
Julian opened his eyes to find himself standing before a hidden cellar under the ruins. He descended the stone stairs cautiously, finding a small room that the fire hadn't completely touched. In the center of the room was an old wooden chair, and on it, The Weaver had placed a package wrapped in purple paper.
Julian opened the package with trembling hands. Inside was a small white child's shirt, embroidered with purple thread: "Julian." In the shirt pocket, he found an old silver key and a short note:
"Welcome home, my son. The thirtieth stitch wasn't for your mother; it was for you. I mentally sewed your tongue so you would hear what others cannot. Go to Arthur Binns... he holds the 'scissors' that will free you, or end your weave forever."
At that moment, Julian received a call from Claire. Her voice was shaking violently. "Julian... we've reached the nursing home. Arthur Binns is dead. He was found in his room, his mouth sewn with purple threads. But he left something behind... a drawing on the wall in his own blood."
"What did he draw?" Julian asked, feeling the cold invade his body.
"He drew the British Police emblem," Claire replied, "but inside the emblem... there was an inverted hourglass."
Julian realized the horrific truth: The Weaver isn't just a killer; he is the "architect" who designed the institution Julian works for. The polic
e weren't chasing the killer; the police were protecting "The Weave."