Mission Forensic
Part 38: The Mistaken Threat
June afternoon pressed warm and slow against the windows, the light a soft gold that drifted through the flat like a reminder that semester break had finally begun. The world outside hummed—vendors calling faintly from the street, a distant pressure cooker hissing in some neighbor’s kitchen, the air thick with the scent of summer dust.
Inside, the envelope lay between them on the dining table.
A single photograph.
A half-smudged fingerprint card.
A sentence typed without a name:
“Match this.”
Edward stood with his hands braced against the table’s edge, breath measured but tight. Catherine was beside him, not touching, simply present—steady the way she had become in the last day, the way they had learned to be for each other.
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Catherine exhaled slowly.
“Okay,” she said. “Before we panic… let’s understand what this is.”
Edward looked at her, something easing in his eyes. “You’re not scared?”
“I am,” she admitted quietly. “But fear is not the same as danger.”
She slid into the chair and angled the envelope under the light. “And this has fingerprints—but not enough intention. Whoever sent this doesn’t know how threats actually work.”
He blinked. “That’s… not comforting.”
“It wasn’t meant to be comforting,” she said gently. “It’s meant to be accurate.”
A faint, reluctant smile touched his mouth.
The fear in the room softened, not gone, but no longer sharp.
The Investigation Begins
They approached it like a case—not as a couple under threat, but as forensic students using what they knew.
Edward checked the corridor outside the flat again. No scratches on the lock. No disturbed dust near the door. On the doormat, Catherine found a tiny torn sticker stuck to the corner of the envelope.
A thin white strip with faint ink:
FS/22 – Lab Batch
She held it up.
Edward frowned. “That’s… our department batch code.”
“Exactly,” she said. “This didn’t come from outside campus.”
Which eliminated strangers. Eliminated danger.
And replaced it with a much more annoying possibility.
Catherine grabbed her shawl. “Come on. Let’s check CCTV.”
The Guard Room Footage
The building guard, half-asleep in his chair, perked up when they asked.
“Camera toh chal raha hai, madam. Thoda blur hai, par dekh lijiye.”
Minutes later, on the tiny screen, they saw it:
A figure in a hoodie—not tall, not threatening—approached their door, dropped the envelope, then jogged down the stairs like someone late for tuition.
It was clumsy.
It was almost shy.
It was absolutely not dangerous.
Catherine sighed. “That is definitely a student.”
Edward dragged a hand across his forehead. “Oh God.”
She nudged him lightly. “Confession: I am both relieved and annoyed.”
“Same.”
Their eyes met—fear dissolving into something wry and shared.
Ridhima Ma’am Reveals the Truth
Back inside the flat, Edward dialed Ridhima Ma’am. She answered on the second ring.
“Edward? Something wrong?”
He sent her the photo of the envelope.
A long exhale crackled through the speaker.
“Not again,” she muttered.
Catherine mouthed, Again?
Edward mouthed back, I don’t know.
Ridhima continued, tone dry as chalk:
“I asked two second-year clinical interns to help reorganize your old Mortimer file samples before the BPR&D meeting. Apparently, one of them thought delivering a physical fingerprint sample to your home would ‘show initiative.’”
Catherine’s jaw dropped. “They delivered it like a ransom note!”
“I know,” Ridhima said flatly. “I will be addressing their creativity in the morning.”
Edward pressed his palms to his eyes. “Ma’am… they scared us.”
“I’m aware. And I apologize. Geniuses in training are sometimes… idiots.”
Catherine snorted.
Ridhima added, “Bring the envelope tomorrow. And don’t worry. This was enthusiasm, not threat.”
The line clicked off.
Silence filled the flat—stunned, embarrassed, relieved silence.
Then Catherine leaned back in her chair.
“So,” she said, “we were nearly murdered by academic enthusiasm.”
Edward dropped his head onto the table. “Please don’t put that sentence on my tombstone.”
She laughed—a real, unguarded sound—reaching to smooth his hair back from his forehead.
The tension fully broke.
The Real Culprit Confesses
Two hours later, Edward’s phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number:
Sir… I’m so sorry. Ma’am told me you got scared. I didn’t mean— it was for the project. I thought anonymous envelope delivery looks professional. Like official. Please don’t complain.
A second message followed:
Also sir please don’t tell my mother.
Edward stared at the screen. “Oh my god.”
Catherine took the phone, read it, then doubled over laughing.
“You need to reply before this child combusts.”
Edward typed:
It’s fine. Please don’t repeat it. Ever.
The reply came instantly:
Yes sir I will deliver only via email in life forever.
Catherine wiped tears from her eyes. “Please frame that.”
A Quiet Evening After the Storm
The day had stretched long, but their breaths felt lighter now.
Edward brewed chai; Catherine sliced apples. Shawn called to ask why Edward looked like he’d aged three years. Ahana declared that second-years should come with warning labels.
They ate at the small dining table, knees brushing under the wood.
When the plates were cleared, Catherine stood by the balcony railing, looking over the slow June sky. Edward stepped beside her, hands resting lightly on the rail.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I should’ve told you the moment I saw it.”
She turned to him. “You did tell me. Just… a little late. And it’s okay.”
“It scared you.”
“Yes,” she said. “And you. But we faced it together. That’s what matters.”
The breeze ruffled her hair. He gently tucked a strand behind her ear.
“No more envelopes?” he asked.
“No more hiding them,” she corrected.
They stood in the fading light, shoulder to shoulder, the last shadows of fear settling into memory instead of staying alive.
Night Settles, Peacefully This Time
Later, they settled on the sofa in the way gravity clearly intended—Catherine tucked neatly into Edward’s side, his arm resting around her with the easy certainty of something that had finally returned home. The ceiling fan hummed overhead, stirring the warm June air into a soft, lazy rhythm.
Catherine traced idle circles on the sleeve of his shirt—tiny spirals, loops, patterns that were absolutely distracting him on purpose.
“I’m glad it wasn’t a threat,” she murmured against his chest.
Edward pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. “I’m glad my academic career wasn’t ended by an overexcited second-year smuggling fingerprint cards like they’re classified documents.”
She snorted. “Only you, Edward. Only you could attract admirers who express affection through anonymous forensic envelopes.”
He sighed dramatically. “I’m irresistible to the most questionable demographics.”
She nudged him. “Well, next time someone wants to impress you, they can kindly use email.”
He pretended to think. “Should I specify Gmail, Outlook, or smoke signal?”
“Or,” she said, poking his chest, “you could stop being impressive for five minutes.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you… jealous?”
She lifted her chin. “Of anonymous envelopes and shaky handwriting? Absolutely yes.”
He laughed—soft and delighted—and pulled her closer. “Fine. I’ll make it official. Department policy. Article One: Edward’s attention is taken.”
Her lips curved. “By whom?”
He leaned in, forehead brushing hers. “By someone who’s drawing hypnotic circles on my arm.”
She paused. “Is it working?”
“Oh,” he whispered, “more than you know.”
Her quiet laugh filled the room, warm and certain. She shifted until she was half on his chest, her fingers brushing along his jaw with a familiarity that softened something inside him.
The night didn’t feel silent—it felt gentle. Like warmth choosing to stay.
No fear. No mystery. No envelopes with alarming typography.
Just two people who had survived exams, exhaustion, misunderstandings, and one truly dramatic fingerprint delivery—now breathing in the same slow rhythm.
“Edward?” she said softly.
“Hmm?”
She slipped her fingers into his. “I like this.”
He brushed his thumb over her knuckles. “Which part?”
“Everything,” she whispered. “This quiet. This sofa. This you.”
He kissed her hair again. “Then let’s not rush anything.”
She smiled and rested her head over his heartbeat, steady and sure.
And for the first time in weeks, semester break felt exactly how it was meant to be—
sweet,
warm,
and the beginning of something unmistakably theirs.
