Duskvale City – Downtown Precinct | 3:47 A.M.

The sky was blacker than usual. No stars. No moon. Just the sirens, still screaming.

Red and blue lights swirled endlessly in the thick mist, flashing over the crumbling architecture of a city that had already given up. Helicopters roared overhead like mechanical vultures, their spotlights slicing through alleyways soaked in rain—and blood.

On every screen across the city, news anchors wore forced calm, trying to mask the dread tightening their voices.

BREAKING NEWS: “Three more detectives confirmed dead in what officials are now calling The Architect Murders.”

“The death toll now stands at twenty-seven, with the Duskvale Police Department entering emergency lockdown.”

“The killer, known only as The Architect, continues to evade capture. All leads have gone cold.”

The screen flickered. Then cut to live footage.

A line of police cruisers blocked off the alley at Fifth and Mercer. Yellow tape fluttered in the wind like warning flags. Dozens of officers stood in silence, weapons drawn but useless, unsure whether to enter the scene or run from it.

They all stared at the same thing.

A veteran homicide detective was slumped against the brick wall, his badge barely clinging to his chest. Blood streaked from his mouth like a signature. His eyes stared wide into nothingness.

Above him—spray-painted in jagged, perfect strokes:

 “THE SYSTEM BLEEDS.”

Beneath that, marked in scarlet ink like a ritual:

—The Architect

Scene Shift – Duskvale Police HQ, 4:02 A.M.

The precinct should’ve been chaos. Phones ringing off the hook. Detectives shouting across desks. Radios buzzing. Doors slamming. Coffee brewing.

Instead, it was silent.

Desks abandoned. Chairs turned over. Papers scattered. Coffee cups growing cold.

Everyone had either quit, vanished, or died.

Only one office still had its light on.

Elias Kuro sat inside, back straight, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the wall covered in case files.

Photos of every victim lined the corkboard. Threads of red string connected them like arteries in a decaying heart. Notes scribbled in sharp ink. Names crossed out. Circled. Question marks. Maps.

And one photo remained untouched.

The Architect’s calling card.

It wasn’t a face—he never left that behind. Just a gloved hand holding a folded blueprint… and blood splattered across the edge.

Elias exhaled through his nose. He hadn’t slept in days. Didn’t bother shaving. His reflection in the window looked more like a ghost than a man.

He reached for the remote and unmuted the TV.

“—still no suspects. Internal Affairs is calling it the worst security failure in Duskvale’s history. All remaining units are advised to operate in teams or retreat from active fieldwork—”

He clicked it off again.

Elias (inner monologue):

“Retreat?

The city’s already dead. They just haven’t made it official.”

A soft buzz vibrated across his desk.

Incoming call.

Unknown Number.

He stared at the screen for a moment.

Then picked up.

Nothing.

Just breathing.

Then a voice—distorted, unnatural, like it was crawling out of a machine:

???:

“Detective Kuro…

You’ve been quiet.

That’s not like you.”

Elias’s jaw clenched. He said nothing.

???:

“You’re the last one, Elias.

Everyone else failed the test.

So I’m giving you a new one.”

Click.

Silence.

Elias didn’t move for a long moment. Then he stood, calm and deliberate, and reached for his coat. His shoulder holster clicked into place like muscle memory.

On the table, next to a burnt-out cigarette and a cracked badge, lay a photo of all seven of his former partners.

All dead.

He picked it up and tucked it into his coat.

Elias (inner monologue):

“He thinks this is a game.

But I don’t play games.

I end them.”

Scene Shift – Crime Scene, Fifth and Mercer

Rain fell harder now, turning the alley into a crimson river.

Elias walked past the barricades without a word. Officers parted, silent, eyes wide with a mix of awe and fear.

He stepped beneath the police tape, alone.

The corpse was still there. Face familiar. The detective had been his academy roommate once—before time, politics, and fear got in the way.

The words on the wall stared back at him.

 “THE SYSTEM BLEEDS.”

And something new beneath it.

Etched into the brick, not with spray paint—but with a knife.

“Your move, Kuro.”

Elias looked down.

A small metal key sat next to the corpse, half-buried in blood.

He crouched. Picked it up.

On the handle was a number:

“Room 413.”

TO BE CONTINUED...

Duskvale Central Storage Facility – Basement Level 4 | 5:29 A.M.

The metal door creaked louder than it should have.

Elias stepped through the threshold, boots echoing off cold concrete. The hallway was lined with dead lightbulbs and rusted filing cabinets—every inch of the place screamed “forgotten.”

Room 413 was real.

But it wasn’t part of any precinct blueprint he’d seen. Not in the archives, not in the backup logs, not in any digital records. It was like the room had been erased... or never meant to exist.

The key slid into the lock with a metallic click.

He paused. Listened.

Nothing.

Then he opened it.

Inside was a small, windowless storage room. A single hanging bulb buzzed overhead like it was gasping for life. Dust coated everything—shelving units, broken desks, crime scene boxes piled to the ceiling. But on the center table, untouched by time, lay one object.

A cassette player.

Elias stared at it, breath steady.

He walked to the table. Hit play.

A slow whir.

Then the tape crackled to life.

And the voice returned.

The Architect (recorded):

“Welcome, Elias.

If you're hearing this, it means you’re still alive.

I admire that. Most would’ve turned back by now.”

“This isn’t a riddle. This isn’t a trap. Not yet.

This is your warning.”

“Everything you thought you knew about this city is a lie.

The people you trusted. The mentors you followed.

The badge you wore so proudly…”

“It’s all rotten.”

“They taught you how to solve puzzles.

But they never taught you what to do when you become one.”

The tape stopped.

Click.

A second tape was underneath, labeled in red ink:

“Case 014 – CLOSED FILE – DO NOT REOPEN”

Elias stared at it. He hadn’t seen that case number in over ten years.

He pulled out his notebook, flipped to the back, and jotted a single line:

“He knows about 014.”

That case wasn’t supposed to exist anymore.

And if The Architect was referencing it, then this wasn’t just a game—it was personal.

Scene Shift – Elias’s Apartment | 6:44 A.M.

Elias returned to his apartment, locking the door behind him out of habit. It was small, dark, sparsely decorated—nothing anyone could trace. No photos. No keepsakes.

Just walls and weapons.

He placed the second tape on the desk, staring at it like it might explode. Then he sat down and played it.

“Case 014. A girl. Seventeen. Found at the docks.”

“Murdered by someone connected to the DPD.”

“Evidence was buried. Witnesses vanished. Case was sealed.”

Elias felt his stomach twist.

He had investigated that case—barely a rookie back then. They told him to drop it. They told him the suspect was “untouchable.”

They were right.

The suspect was the son of a high-ranking official. Everything was swept under the rug.

He remembered her name now.

Riley Marez.

He had failed her.

The Architect hadn’t.

The tape crackled one last time.

“You want to stop me, Elias?

Then solve what you couldn’t ten years ago.

Open the case they forced you to bury.

Find the truth about Riley.

And maybe—just maybe—I'll let you die with peace.”

Click.

Silence.

Elias leaned back in his chair, eyes closed.

Elias (inner monologue):

“This isn’t about justice anymore.

He’s digging into my past. My failures. My guilt.”

“He doesn’t want to be caught.

He wants to break me.”

He opened the drawer, pulled out the faded file from 014. It was torn, nearly empty, but one photograph remained.

A girl. Black hoodie. Red headphones. Dead eyes.

He swallowed hard.

Elias (inner monologue):

“I remember her scream.

And how fast they made it disappear.”

Scene Shift – Downtown Duskvale | 8:10 A.M.

As sunlight finally bled through the clouds, Elias walked alone through the market district. Nobody knew his name here. To them, he was just another tired face.

But the moment he passed the corner of 7th and Baldwin, he stopped.

On the wall, in the same red spray paint:

“RILEY DESERVED BETTER.”

And beneath it, something new—

A phone number.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Duskvale – Eastside Payphone Booth | 12:02 P.M.

The payphone rang before he even touched it.

Elias’s hand hovered in the air for a second, heart still.

He hadn’t dialed. He hadn’t even reached out.

It rang again. Shrill. Urgent. Like the city itself was calling him.

He picked it up.

??? (distorted voice):

“You should’ve let her die quietly.”

Click.

Static.

Then nothing.

The line went dead.

Elias stood there, the dial tone humming like an old wound reopening. He stepped away slowly, scanning the street. No footsteps. No watchers. But the silence was too heavy.

Too planned.

Scene Shift – Riley Marez’s Childhood Home | 1:38 P.M.

The house was on the edge of the city—one of those neighborhoods that didn’t get repaved after the funding cuts. Weeds choked the fences. The porch sagged inward. A mailbox dangled open with old newspapers jammed inside like forgotten time capsules.

He knocked twice.

An old woman opened the door.

Eyes dull. Shoulders sunken. Grief carved into every wrinkle of her face.

Mrs. Marez:

“You’re too late.

She died ten years ago. You had your chance.”

Elias:

“I know. But I’m not here as a cop. I’m here for answers. About what was taken.”

Mrs. Marez stared at him for a long, empty moment. Then, without a word, she stepped aside and let him in.

The interior smelled of stale cigarettes and dust. Pictures lined the hallway—Riley as a child, birthday parties, a dance recital, a graduation that never happened. A life captured in frames, frozen just before the fall.

Mrs. Marez:

“After they buried her, I stopped trusting men with badges.

But you… you look worse than they did.”

Elias (softly):

“I am.”

She handed him a faded folder. Inside were photos, newspaper clippings, handwritten notes. Pages that should’ve been logged into evidence, but never made it that far.

And at the bottom—a letter.

Written by Riley.

Riley (handwritten):

“If anything happens to me, it wasn’t an accident.”

“He said he’d ruin me. Said his father would make it disappear.”

“He gave me a choice—silence or death.”

Elias (inner monologue):

“She tried to fight. She knew what they’d do.”

“And I walked away like a coward.”

He clenched the letter, jaw tight. The Architect wasn’t exposing new crimes. He was digging up Elias’s old sins—the things he never had the courage to finish.

Scene Shift – Rooftop Across DPD Headquarters | 3:09 P.M.

Elias lit a cigarette with shaking fingers. Below, the precinct buzzed with the illusion of order—officers moving like ants with no queen. Surveillance vans. Caution tape. Checkpoints. It was a city trying to pretend it still had a backbone.

But Elias knew better.

He held the photo of Riley up to the skyline.

Elias (inner monologue):

“I wasn’t there for her. But I’m here now.”

“And if The Architect thinks he’s the only one willing to burn the system down…”

“…he hasn’t watched me bleed yet.”

He turned to leave—

—and froze.

Taped to the door behind him was another envelope.

This one was fresh. Sealed. No stamp.

Inside was a photo.

Of him.

Taken that morning at the payphone.

On the back, one line in red ink:

“She’s not the only one watching.”

TO BE CONTINUED...