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That same year, the Evermoon incident happened. A quiet coastal town, known mostly for its lighthouses and seaside vineyards, was suddenly thrust into national headlines when a janitor was found dead—brutally murdered—on the night of Mr. Lay’s daughter’s extravagant wedding at his grand villa.

The case spiraled fast. News outlets buzzed with details: the glimmering estate, and the high-profile guest list. Within days, the police had arrested another janitor with a criminal record and just enough motive to satisfy the public’s thirst for closure.

But Julian wasn’t buying it.

He followed the coverage obsessively, his eyes dark and tired as he read through reports and statements. "They’ve got the wrong guy," he muttered one night, tossing a news article aside. "It’s too clean. Too... convenient."

Anna looked up from her editing, brow raised. "What's wrong baby?"

Julian didn’t answer. He stood, pacing for a minute. "The other janitor was not the true murderer, I am almost certain that something is hidden."

That was when he decided to write The Silent Shadow.

At first, Anna thought it would just be another thriller—gritty, cerebral, one of Julian’s darker projects. But the deeper he got into the writing, the more personal it started to feel. He obsessed over timelines, studied crime scene photos, even traveled to Evermoon under the guise of “atmospheric research.”

Anna had been mad. Truly. She couldn’t understand why Julian was diving so recklessly into something that didn’t belong to their carefully crafted world. Every story they’d written before had been fiction —controlled, safe, imagined. But this time, Julian wasn’t just telling a story. He wanted to use the Evermoon incident as something more — as a real-life example.

“You’re not a detective, Julian,” she snapped one night, after he came home late from yet another unannounced trip to Evermoon. “You write fiction. You're not supposed to chase ghosts in real life.”

He’d barely looked at her, still pulling notes from his coat pocket. “That janitor was innocent. I know it. And if no one else is going to dig into it—”

“Then let it go,” she interrupted, frustrated. “You’re acting like it’s your job to solve this, and it’s not. You’re losing sleep, skipping meetings, missing deadlines—”

“We write stories, Anna!” he snapped, louder than intended. “And this—this is a story. A real one. And a brilliant one. It could help us create something unforgettable. A masterpiece.”