15 July — 12:44 A.M.
Location: The abandoned "Brandon Brothers" workshop, buried in the depths of a London that breathes darkness.
Police units swarmed the decaying workshop, blue and red lights slicing through the night like blades. The air trembled with the anticipation of a breach. At the front of the team stood Son, leading the officers toward the fractured metal entrance.
One hit.
The rusted lock snapped.
Then—absolute silence.
Son stepped in first, gun raised, descending into a stone crypt soaked in the ghosts of old secrets.
His flashlight carved through drifting layers of dust. In the center of the room lay a body on the cold concrete floor—covered by a white sheet now drenched in a deep, bleeding crimson. A shroud holding the final echoes of terror.
And kneeling beside it…
was the killer.
Bent forward like a worshipper at the altar of a demon. In his right hand, a knife glimmered sharply beneath the thin ribbon of light.
"Drop the knife! Hands where I can see them!" Son's voice tore through the stillness.
But the man didn't react.
Frozen.
A wax statue breathing faintly.
Son signaled his team to spread out and encircle the suspect. He moved left, closing in—when the flashlight finally struck the man's face.
Lifeless features.
Vacant eyes.
A line of drool slipping from the corner of his mouth—like a mind shattered beyond repair.
But the horror wasn't in the expression.
The real horror… was in the identity of the kneeling ghost.
It was Jim.
Twenty-Four Hours Before the Eighth Murder…
Jim had been standing face-to-face with what felt like the end of his line. A strange stillness weighed him down. A faint smile touched his lips as flashes of his wife and children drifted across his thoughts—his last fragile beam of light.
Then everything collapsed.
A force yanked him backward out of the white van. He crashed onto the wet pavement, choking for air.
He realized—sometimes escaping death was far more terrifying than dying.
He looked up at his rescuer.
Their neighbor.
Brother of the man with the red scarf.
A man with a book in his hand and a face carved from stone.
"Why… didn't you just let me die?" Jim whispered.
"You really think that after your suicide, my brother would protect your family if danger comes for them?" the man asked, voice soft but lethal.
"You think anyone would?"
"The danger comes because of me. If I go… it goes with me."
The man smirked, flipping a page.
"Danger is everywhere. What reduces it… is numbers. When fear closes in, people look for someone—anyone—to feel safe.
If you disappear… who will your family look to? My brother?
Wake up, detective. Running is for cowards."
Jim asked:
"What are you reading?"
The man said:
"A story about a man who destroyed himself with his own hands."
Jim swallowed.
"I'm… sorry. I can't even say thank you. I don't know if saving someone like me deserves thanks."
"No problem. Just go. And keep doing what you do.
When you succeed—when you finally believe you were worth saving—thank me then."
That night, Jim drowned himself in a dim bar, swallowing glass after glass.
On the muted TV behind him, reports played about the seventh victim found near the river.
Jim chuckled bitterly, raised his drink, and whispered:
"Be next. I think the reservoir's empty."
He stumbled home through narrow alleyways and slept in his car inside the garage—hiding from his own mind.
Morning
A knock on the window jolted him awake.
Elizabeth stood outside.
Jim said:
"Good Morning."
Elizabeth:
"Were you drinking?"
Jim:
"No. Just fell asleep."
Elizabeth said:
"And that smell?"
Jim:
"What smell? I don't smell anything."
The rest of the day he ignored calls from the station.
Sat alone in his office playing chess against himself.
Laughing quietly.
While Jack and Emily watched from the doorway—watching their father dissolve into a shadow that giggled in the dark.
At midnight, he had sworn he would walk away from everything.
Until the communicator buzzed.
It was Em.
Repeating the same warnings.
Jim didn't move—until Em said:
"The eighth victim… his name is 'Son.' He's a Korean-origin detective."
Jim bolted upright.
"What? The victim's name is Son? Are you sure?"
"Yes. And why didn't you answer before? Did you give up, Jim?"
"I… lost the device. Just give me the location!"
"An old abandoned workshop in central London. Still scanning. Just get close and stay connected."
Jim threw on his coat and sped through the city.
He reached Johnson Street at 12:22 A.M.
Before calling Son, Em rang again:
"Brandon Brothers Workshop. Move! You're running out of time."
As Jim arrived, Em's voice echoed through the device:
"Are you inside?"
"Yes. Entering now."
"I'm entering too."
Jim froze.
There were footsteps entering from the opposite side.
"What do you mean you're entering too? I'm—"
But somewhere far away, in a cold garden, Em lifted an apple, removed the red scarf from his face, revealing a jagged scar stretching from ear to ear.
He took a bite.
"I mean I'm entering your house, Jim. And the only thing stopping me from touching your family… is that I simply chose not to.Not yet."
Jim's voice cracked.
"What are you saying? Is this a joke?"
"Actually, you're right. It was a joke.
But not this part—no, this part's real.
The joke was everything before this.
The device. The time-bending calls.
The murders.
All of it—one big game.
But not anymore.
Now it's real.
Get ready, Jim…
You're about to face a moment more serious than your own birth."
Jim grabbed his head, legs trembling.
"A joke? How? When? How are you in my house? Are you from the future?"
Em sighed.
"Don't make me repeat myself. Time's almost gone.
There is no future. No past.
Just you… me… and this device.
We played a game.
And it looks like I won.
From now on, you follow every order—or your family disappears."
Jim collapsed to the floor, his heart pounding so violently it felt as if it would burst out of his chest. His trembling hand lifted the device.
"Why…? So you're the killer?"
"It's far more complicated than that. Maybe if you saw me—if you truly knew who I am—you'd understand the reason. But Jim… it's not what you think. You were simply the right one. You were the mask the world chose to wear.
Do you remember when I looked you straight in the eyes fifteen years ago, back in that interrogation room? Every detective revealed their true nature—some with their fists, others with their laughter. But you… you were the only one pretending to be different, even though you were the darkest demon among them. You hid behind kindness. Behind righteousness."
"As for whether I'm the killer—no, not exactly. I'm the one who placed them there. I'm the one who took them. But they killed themselves. Believe me, Jim… what separates a human from madness is circumstance. And the victims… their circumstances were unfortunate."
A short pause. A breath filled with cold certainty.
"Now, Jim, I'm going to give you two choices. But first… I want you to look for the old lantern in the corner.
Jim said, his face full of confusion.
"Why?"
Em said Frustrated:
" you're not as smart as you pretend.If your family means anything to you, move.Unless… you were pretending to be a father too?...Pretending to be a protector?"
Jim bit his lip until blood dripped.
"Shut up! I'll do it. Just don't touch them."
He grabbed the lamp.
"Now what?"
"On the table to your right… there's a knife.
Put your fingerprints on it.
Now.
Police are coming. Hurry."
Jim hesitated.
"What's wrong? Scared? Come on, Jim! Be responsible.
Be a man. Be a man for once in your life!"
Jim grabbed the knife.
"Fine… It's done."
Em exhaled with delight.
"Congratulations, detective.You're a murderer now.
An Hell's Angel—exactly what you always were.
Now go to the center of the workshop.
You'll find the eighth victim.
And blood.
I want you to bathe in it."
Jim said insistently:
"If I do this… will you leave my family alone?"
Em said:
"I promise.My goal isn't revenge or killing.My goal… is to show the world the truth behind every hero."
Jim approached the covered body.
After a long hesitation, he dipped his hand into the pool of cold blood.
"What now?"
Em said In a cold and sarcastic tone:
"That's it. I've placed you at a crossroads:Either become the killer the world will see—or stay innocent, and And play the victim. Regarding the death of your family.
But I salute you For once, you chose the unselfish path.
Now you're just like me.I committed the same crime even though I was innocent at the time, but you're really guilty, Jim. Now we're both guilty.
Time itself is satisfied.Enjoy your final moments of freedom.
But don't get comfortable.There's still one last surprise."
The line cut.
Silence swallowed everything.
Jim stared around him, dazed, then looked at his blood-covered hands.
A cold shiver crawled through him.
He crouched.
Pulled the sheet back.
Beneath it—The eighth victim was his sister. Yara.
Stabbed chaotically.
Eyes wide open, frozen in eternal terror.
Nails torn off.
Jim collapsed.
Something inside him shattered beyond repair.
No tears.
No voice.
Only a primal, broken howl that wasn't fully human.
His mind emptied—
white, endless, meaningless.
Then—The doors burst open.
Son and the officers stormed in.
But Jim didn't feel them.
He was gone already.
Lost in a void without shape or explanation.