The Tragedy Script

Detective Wayne and the other officers exchanged glances. The skepticism was gone, replaced by alarm.

York and Max were strangers. Why would a hitman go through all that trouble just to steal some worthless old clothes and a fruit knife?

Unless...

"Are you saying..." Wayne started.

"I don't know what he was planning, but I know it wasn't a charity run," Max said, spreading his hands.

Detective Wayne frowned, processing the implications. He turned to a nearby officer. "Go get the evidence bags from the suspect. Everything found on York tonight. Including the clothes and shoes he was wearing."

...

Five minutes later.

The officer returned, dumping several evidence bags onto the table. "Captain, this is everything found on York."

Detective Wayne pointed to a transparent bag containing a jacket and shoes. "Mr. Mason. Take a look. Are these yours?"

Max glanced at them and nodded. "Yep. That's my stuff."

He pointed at the jacket. "My mom bought that coat two or three years ago. I hate the style—it looks ancient—so I almost never wear it. It usually sits at the very bottom of my trunk. See?"

"See that little smudge on the cuff? That's ink. My little sister was being a brat with a fountain pen," Max explained, pointing to the shirt. "And the dress shoes? I bought those fresh out of college just to look professional for interviews. Honestly, I'm a comfort guy. I live in sneakers. Those leather shoes should be covered in dust by now, but it looks like our guy was considerate enough to polish them for me. Heh."

Detective Wayne watched him closely. Max knew every scratch and stain on those items. He definitely wasn't lying about owning them. Satisfied, Wayne turned his attention to the second evidence bag.

He pulled out a small, transparent plastic baggie and held it up to the light, squinting. Slowly, his expression darkened.

"Captain Vance, look at this."

To anyone else, the baggie looked empty—like something used to store a couple of aspirin.

"It's skin flakes and hair," Wayne said, his eyes involuntarily darting toward Max.

"Uh..." Max blinked.

The officers in the room widened their eyes. This was getting creepy.

"Captain Vance, check this out. This has to be biometric fingerprint skin."

Officer Quinn, the sharp-looking female officer, stepped forward and handed over a palm-sized box. Inside rested several black, gel-like caps, about the size of fingertips. They were packed with extreme care, like fragile heirlooms.

Quinn launched into an explanation. "You rarely see this kind of biometric skin on the black market. It's high-tech bionics. The cheap silicone stuff you usually see just copies the ridge patterns—that fools a scanner maybe eighty percent of the time. But silicone doesn't have sweat glands. A deep forensic scan can spot a fake instantly because it's too dry. But this stuff?" She pointed at the gel caps. "It mimics the water, urea, and proteins secreted by human pores. It's almost indistinguishable from the real thing. Even our best lab equipment would struggle to flag this as a fake. Technically, this is spy-grade gear. Unless you're using bleeding-edge 'subcutaneous identification' tech, this stuff is practically uncrackable."

Max looked at the beautiful officer with genuine surprise. She was rattling off specs like a pro. Between her analysis of the gun earlier and now this, she was clearly a tech wizard. Max didn't understand half the jargon about bionic sweat, but the takeaway was clear: the bad guy was a pro.

"If the suspect broke into Mr. Mason's room to steal these specific items..." Detective Wayne trailed off, but he didn't need to finish the sentence.

The stolen clothes, the shoes, the murder weapon, plus the hair, skin, and high-end fake fingerprints...

It was a setup. A meticulously crafted frame job.

"Are you saying... York wanted to commit a crime and pin it on Max?" Hazel's voice trembled.

Someone going to these lengths wasn't just planning a petty theft. They were planning something heinous. The thought made Hazel shiver. Next to her, Lily sensed the fear radiating from Hazel, who was gripping the girl's hand tight. Lily squeezed back, trying to be brave.

"We'll run DNA on the hair and compare the prints to Mr. Mason's," Wayne said gravely. "If they match... then yes. That is extremely likely."

York was a master of criminal investigation. He knew the system. If he was planting evidence, it would be watertight. If the crime had gone down today and the police found all this pointing to Max, even Wayne admitted he would have slapped the cuffs on Max immediately. Even if they couldn't convict him instantly, his life would have been ruined as the prime suspect.

"What? You mean I was almost the fall guy for some maniac? That was a close call! Too close!" Max gasped, clutching his chest in a display of mock terror.

Detective Wayne and Officer Quinn rolled their eyes in unison.

Please, Wayne thought. You're shocked? You were the first one to figure it out. The guy was wearing your shoes, for crying out loud.

"Mr. Mason, your height and build are nearly identical to York's," Wayne said, ignoring the dramatics. "If we reconstructed the scene based on footprints, it would look like you were there. Plus, you're neighbors with the target, Lily. That's probably why York picked you."

Max nodded, dropping the act slightly. He agreed with the analysis. When Lily had bumped into him earlier, it had literally pushed him into York's line of sight. A real twist of fate.

"We have the 'how' and the 'who,'" Wayne said, looking around the room. "That leaves the 'why.' York just got out of prison. Why go after Lily the second he's free?"

Wayne's gaze shifted to the women—Hazel and Hazel. Just like Max, the detective suspected the real target wasn't the child, but the guardian.

"It's me," Hazel said, her smile bitter.

"Years ago... I was the one who testified in court. I'm the one who sent York to prison."

The officers froze.

"I didn't expect it to be like that..."

Detective Wayne stood there, his brain doing a majestic reboot.

Finally, the chaotic puzzle pieces of the case clicked into a complete picture. But the truth was so bizarre it made the seasoned detective feel like he'd walked into a fantasy novel.

York was supposed to be the apex predator here. He was a forensic expert with a meticulously crafted plan for a home invasion. Given his skills and experience, this should have been a flawless operation.

But at the critical moment, his master plan had been dismantled by... a sales rep?

It wasn't just a failed crime. Despite having firearms and superior tactical gear, York hadn't just lost; he'd been absolutely owned. It was a "Jedi counter-kill," a total KO. Looking at the scene, York hadn't even managed to break his opponent's defense. He hadn't chipped away a single pixel of Max's HP bar. It was a humiliating, total defeat.

And the kicker? The "hero" of the story turned out to be the very scapegoat York had originally handpicked to take the fall.

Max, who was supposed to be "NPC #1," had suddenly glitched out and become the Boss Hunter. It was the kind of plot twist that makes you want to slam the table and shout, No way!

"I guess it's true what they say—good things happen to good people," Vivian said, clicking her tongue in amazement. "If you hadn't been trying to save someone else, you probably would've been the one in the body bag."

Max accepted the 'Certified Nice Guy' badge with zero guilt.

"You know, I've been pondering a philosophical issue lately," Max said, rubbing his chin. "Maybe the key to changing your own fate isn't focusing on yourself. Maybe it's about changing someone else's fate, which then boomerangs back to save you. Efficiency, right?"

After living through so many simulated "lives," he felt like he'd unlocked a cheat code. He'd escaped a Tragic Life only to fall into The Hustle, as if the universe had hard-coded bad luck into his DNA.

Fate was like a giant spiderweb. The more you thrashed around, the more tangled you got.

But what if you stopped struggling and cut someone else loose first? Could they then turn around and cut you loose? Could you break the web together?

Saving others is saving yourself.

That's basically karma in a nutshell, wasn’t it?