The night had swallowed the city whole.

  Rain poured in slow, icy sheets, blurring the glow of streetlights into molten halos. The streets of Kyoto were nearly empty, but the silence was not peaceful—it was thick, tense, like the world itself was holding its breath.

  A figure walked alone.

  Satsujin Sha.

  His footsteps echoed off the wet pavement like the ticking of a cursed clock. No umbrel, no haste. Just a steady, inhuman calm. His bck coat clung to his body, soaked and heavy, yet he walked as if he carried no weight at all—not the rain, not the blood, not the death.

  And the people who caught a glimpse of him—those unlucky enough to peek out from behind curtains or through rain-glossed café windows—felt something primal stir inside them.

  Fear.

  They didn’t know who he was. But they felt it.

  Something wasn’t right.

  He didn’t walk like a man.

  He walked like a god who no longer cared for worship. Like a beast that had devoured its st chain. Like Satan, taking a stroll through the wreckage of paradise with blood still wet on his lips.

  His reflection in the puddles wasn’t quite his own. Where his face should have been, there were flickers—shadowy horns curling out from his head, a grin that stretched just too wide, and eyes like twin eclipses, swallowing all light. But when he moved, the illusion vanished, like the devil himself teasing the truth only to snap it away.

  He passed by a convenience store. Inside, a little girl looked up at him through the gss. Her smile faltered. She didn’t know why. Her mother noticed too te—rushed her away before Satsujin even turned his head. The automatic doors didn’t open for him. As if even machines knew better than to welcome him in.

  Inside his mind, there was no remorse. No guilt. Only one echo repeating:

  > "She loved me. That’s why she had to die."

  Aira Kun’s final gasp still reverberated in his ears—not like a memory, but a melody. He didn’t mourn her. He *remembered* her. Preserved her in death like a perfect artwork ruined by the smudge of emotion.

  He stopped under a flickering streetmp, gazing up at the sky. The clouds above twisted unnaturally, as though the heavens themselves recoiled from his presence. And for a moment—just one fleeting second—the moon turned red.

  His lips curled into a slow smile.

  Yes.

  The game was over.

  But his story had just begun.

  Let the world believe it was safe again. Let Mr. A and Naki Kun hide in their fragile peace. Let the police turn their eyes away. Let them all pretend.

  He would walk these streets like a ghost. Like a myth.

  But one day…

  They would remember the name Satsujin Sha.

  And the devil they let walk free.

  The rain hadn't stopped. It whispered over the rooftops, slithered down the gss of lonely windows, and pooled at the feet of the one who walked as if the world belonged to him.

  Satsujin Sha stopped beneath the skeletal shadow of a streetmp, the flickering light casting distorted shapes across his face. His phone buzzed in his pocket—an old model, scratched and nearly forgotten-looking, just like the man who used it.

  He pulled it out with a calm that bordered on boredom and answered without hesitation.

  “…Mr. A,” he said, his voice low, velvety, and dark enough to stain the night itself.

  There was a pause. Static. Then a voice.

  Cold. Measured. Calcuted.

  > “Is it done?”

  Satsujin Sha tilted his head, a smirk forming on his face—not one of amusement, but of satisfaction born from blood.

  “The work is finished, sir. Aira Kun is gone. She didn’t scream… not much.”

  He closed his eyes for a brief second, as if savoring the memory. The silence on the other end of the call wasn’t empty—it was ced with a tension known only to two people who speak the same terrible nguage.

  Then Mr. A’s voice returned, slower this time. There was no praise. No emotion. Just the continuation of a pn no one else could understand.

  > “Then prepare yourself. The next target is ready.”

  Satsujin's smile widened just slightly.

  “Name?”

  > “Shinohara Yui. Age twenty-two. She knows things she shouldn't. And she’s been asking questions.”

  Satsujin’s expression shifted—not into surprise, but into curiosity, the kind a predator feels when the prey suddenly runs in a new direction.

  “Where do I find her?”

  > “Tokyo. Shibuya district. She works at a publishing company. Under the name *Yuki Hoshina*. But remember—she’s cautious. Smarter than most. And if she sees you coming, she might run.”

  “Then I’ll make her run,” he whispered, his voice almost affectionate, like he was talking about a game he couldn't wait to py.

  A moment passed.

  Then the call ended.

  Satsujin slid the phone back into his pocket and exhaled, mist curling from his lips like smoke from hell. The streets stretched before him like a dark river of fate. He began walking again, footsteps steady, the rain gliding down his cheeks like tears the devil never earned.

  Behind him, the flickering light of the streetmp finally died.

  Ahead of him, Tokyo waited.

  So did the next scream.

  The train to Tokyo was nearly empty.

  A tired businessman slumped near the front, snoring faintly into his briefcase. A young couple sat near the back, holding hands, whispering about mundane futures. And in the middle of the carriage, Satsujin Sha sat in silence, eyes fixed on the darkened window beside him.

  He wasn’t looking at his reflection.

  He was looking beyond it.

  Pnning.

  The rhythmic ctter of the tracks became a lulby for his mind, each rattle a heartbeat, each screech a promise.

  Tokyo’s skyline rose like a kingdom of gss and shadow.

  The predator had arrived.

  A small apartment complex near Shibuya stood in silence, its top floor window half-open, fluttering white curtains dancing like ghosts in the wind.

  Inside, there was no scream. No struggle. Only a gasp—cut short by the slicing hush of a bde.

  Shinohara Yui, also known as *Yuki Hoshina*, colpsed backward, her final breath lost in a sea of paper files and unfinished words. Blood soaked the carpet, tracing the story she would never write.

  Standing over her, Satsujin Sha wiped his bde clean on her desk calendar. The date was circled in red.

  December 6th, 2005.

  A reminder. A message.

  Another chapter closed.

  He stepped out into the hallway, pulled out his old phone, and dialed the only number etched into his memory like a scar.

  Mr. A answered before the first ring finished.

  > “Is it done?”

  Satsujin exhaled slowly, eyes gzed with something far more dangerous than satisfaction.

  “She’s gone. Your little informer won’t be talking anymore.”

  There was silence on the line. But Satsujin wasn’t finished. He stared up at the flickering hallway light, shadows dancing across his face.

  “You know something, Mr. A? You’re my friend.”

  He paused, then his voice dipped, darker, heavier.

  “And you’re the one who told me to start all this. At first, I didn’t feel anything. But now… I think I like it.”

  His smile widened as he whispered,

  “Killing.”

  On the other end of the line, Mr. A didn’t respond immediately. But then—

  A smirk. Audible in his breath. Almost a chuckle.

  > “Good,” Mr. A said coldly.

  > “Because the list is far from over.”

  The line went dead.

  And in the silence that followed, only the city breathed.

  Satsujin Sha slid the phone into his coat and van

  ished into the night, his footsteps light, like a man walking toward something he was born to do.

  Behind him, the light stopped flickering.

  And the blood began to dry.