The night was unusually quiet—quiet enough to make #@&# nervous. In his world, quiet meant trouble was politely waiting behind a corner, sharpening a knife, humming an evil tune, and ready to jump-scare him.
He walked through the dim streets with William, each step echoing like the opening of a dramatic mystery novel.
And speaking of novels—
Writer: Ahem.
#@&#: "What now?"
Writer: I'm just saying… try not to embarrass me this chapter.
#@&#: "I MAKE NO PROMISES."
Writer: …I'm doomed.
They reached the crime scene: an old mansion lit only by flickering lanterns and poor decisions. A crowd had gathered, whispering dramatic nonsense the way townspeople always do.
William pushed through. #@&# tried to follow but got stuck between two old ladies discussing bread prices.
Inside the mansion was a single body on the floor—no blood, no weapon, no wounds. Just a man lying dramatically as if he fainted from taxes.
The inspector approached them. "We have no idea what happened," he said. "The victim looks… perfectly fine. Except for being dead, of course."
#@&# knelt by the body, squinting like a discount Sherlock.
William whispered, "Do you see something?"
#@&#: "Yes… dust. Lots of dust. Why does nobody clean here?"
Writer: Please focus.
#@&#: "YOU focus."
Around the room stood five suspicious individuals:
A maid who looked too innocent.
A butler whose mustache alone screamed "suspicious."
A cousin who kept giggling at random moments.
A neighbor who claimed he "just wanted to borrow sugar at midnight."
And a cat. A very fluffy, judgmental cat.
Anyone could be the killer.
Or none of them.
Or all of them.
Or the cat. Especially the cat.
Writer: Don't accuse the cat.
#@&#: "I WILL accuse whoever I want!"
Writer: It's a cat!
#@&#: "And it has the eyes of a criminal mastermind!"
The inspector cleared his throat. "Detective… do you have any theory at all?"
"Of course," #@&# said proudly. "The killer is… definitely someone in this room."
William facepalmed so hard his soul left his body.
Then something strange happened.
The lights flickered. The door slammed shut.
And a voice echoed from the shadows:
"YOU WILL NEVER FIND ME."
People screamed. The cat hissed.
#@&# screamed louder than everyone else combined.
Writer: Why are YOU screaming?
#@&#: "IT FELT RIGHT!"
When the lights came back on, something new had appeared on the wall, written in red:
"LOOK WHERE NO ONE LOOKS."
William stepped closer. "Is this… blood?"
#@&#: "Nope. Ketchup."
William: "How do you know?"
#@&#: "I tasted it."
Writer: STOP licking evidence!
#@&#: "YOU DON'T CONTROL ME."
The room fell silent.
The suspects looked more suspicious than before.
The cat looked offended.
And now the mystery deepened.
Was the victim even murdered?
Was the message a clue… or a prank?
Was the killer among them…
…or watching from somewhere else?
…or maybe the writer was messing with them?
#@&#: "Writer, did YOU kill him?"
Writer: No! I would at least make it look cooler if I did!
#@&#: "Suspicious answer."
The inspector sighed. "What should we do, detective?"
#@&# stood confidently in the middle of the room and declared:
"We investigate every clue, question every suspect, chase every shadow, and MOST IMPORTANTLY—"
He tripped over the cat and fell face-first into a desk.
William nodded. "He meant: We'll start the investigation."
Writer: Good luck… all of you. Because even I don't know who the killer is yet.
#@&#: "WAIT—WHAT?!"
Writer: Hehe.
#@&#: "NO. NO HEHE. WHO WROTE THIS STORY?!"
Writer: …I literally did.
#@&#: "THEN WHY DON'T YOU KNOW THE KILLER?!"
Writer: Because the readers will decide.
And just like that, the chapter ends.
The clues remain unsolved.
The suspects remain suspicious.
The cat remains fluffy and dangerous.
And the killer?
Still unknown.
For now.