The roar of Anfield filled the air as the match neared its climax. The scoreboard flashed 2-1, the crowd on their feet, the tension crackling in the atmosphere.
Yet, Alexander Bluestone sat still, his sapphire-blue eyes locked not on the field—but on his pocket watch.
87 minutes.
He clicked it shut and stood up.
"Let's go."
Mark Alberton, sitting beside him, frowned. "Now? The game's almost over."
Alexander's smirk was subtle but sharp. "Trust me. You'll want to see this."
Darmian, Madison, and Rose exchanged glances but stood up regardless.
The Broadcasting Room
The hallway leading to the stadium's broadcasting room was eerily quiet. The cheers from the field felt distant, muffled.
Alexander walked without hesitation, his golden pocket watch swinging slightly. The others followed, their hands subtly drifting to their weapons.
As they reached the door, Alexander stopped. He turned to them. "Be ready."
Then, he pushed the door open.
And there he was.
A figure in black. Masked. Cloaked. Aiming a silenced pistol at a man trembling in the corner.
The Grim Reaper.
The instant the door swung open, the figure snapped his head toward them.
Mark moved to pull his gun—
Bang!
A gunshot rang out.
The masked figure staggered back, blood blooming on his chest. His weapon clattered to the floor.
Alexander exhaled, lowering his gun.
A moment of silence.
Then, Mark stepped forward, his expression unreadable. "Did we just kill Grim Reaper?"
Alexander didn't answer immediately. He walked to the fallen body and, with a calm hand, removed the mask.
The room went still.
Beneath the mask was Arnold Wayne.
A football commentator.
Rose's brow furrowed. "Why?"
Alexander's smirk returned. He crouched beside the body, adjusting his gloves.
"It was obvious."
The others listened as he explained.
"Every time a body was discovered, the first report came from one man—Arnold Wayne. That alone wasn't enough. But then I looked at the kill pattern."**
He gestured to the stadium, where the match continued.
"The first murder happened at the 10th minute of a game. The next at the 20th. Then 30th, 40th, 50th... Each kill perfectly aligned with game time. Today is the ninth consecutive day."
His smile sharpened.
"That means the final kill was set for the 90th minute."
Mark folded his arms. "So why target the head broadcaster?"
Alexander leaned back. **"Ambition. The man was aiming to rise in rank, but each time someone got in his way—they were found dead." He tapped the corpse with his shoe. "Arnold Wayne was working with Grim Reaper. And tonight—he was going to kill again."
A beat of silence.
Then Mark let out a small chuckle. "You win, Bluestone."
Alexander stood, stretching slightly. His smirk deepened.
"I believe you owe me a treat."
Mark sighed, shaking his head. "Fine. I'll pay."
The others simply stared at Alexander in awe.
Another case solved. Another move ahead.
And somewhere out there…
Grim Reaper was watching.