TELEGRAM GROUP CHAT — RIGHT AFTER THE TV BROADCAST
Kamiko: Oh shit. That's bad. Who even is that guy?
Kaguro: What the hell are you talking about?
Bachi: Hey... I heard some news. And it's not good.
Kashimo: You mean the court thing?
Bachi: Yeah, that court bombing. The cops are there already, right?
Kamiko: I'm not talking about the court! I'm talking about the TV broadcast!
Kaguro: What broadcast?
Kamiko: Open your TV, you dumb nerd!
Kaguro: Is there a link or something? I'm not near a TV.
Kamiko: Ugh. Fine. I'll send it in private chat.
---
PRIVATE CHAT — KAGURO & KAMIKO
Kamiko: [sends link]
Watch it.
Kaguro: What even is this?
Kamiko: Just shut up and watch it, dumbass.
Kaguro: ...Okay, okay.
Kaguro clicks the link. The video plays—the same disturbing live broadcast from earlier. Johnson's face, his voice, the madness in his eyes. Kaguro's expression slowly darkens as he listens.
Kaguro: Who is this guy? And... wait. Is he talking about Alan?
Kamiko: First question—I don't know. Second—yeah, I think he is. He mentioned Michelle. That's Alan's late mother.
Kaguro: I thought Alan didn't have a dad?
Kamiko: He did. They divorced a long time ago. Alan told me himself.
Kaguro: So... this is his biological father?
Kamiko: Might be. No proof yet. But it looks likely.
Kaguro: But why would he want to kill Alan?!
Kamiko: Didn't you hear what he said? "I'll finally rest in peace after killing Alan and Michelle." He wants to die with them. It's some twisted revenge.
Kaguro: Damn. This is serious. Really serious—for you, and for your brother.
Kamiko: Exactly what I'm trying to say.
Kaguro: So what do we do now?
Kamiko: Let's figure that out soon. We need to think first.
---
THE POLICE CASE — ROOM 207
At the same time, in a hotel located near Tokyo, chaos was brewing behind closed doors.
Hotel staff were glued to the news when they recognized something odd—the background of the broadcast matched one of their own rooms. But when they checked all security feeds, the room in question wasn't listed. That made it even more suspicious.
Eventually, an intense internal search led them to one specific location: Room 207.
Five officers arrived outside the door. One of them knocked loudly.
Officer: Hello? Is this Room 207?
Silence.
Another knock. Another question.
Officer: This is the Tokyo Police. Please respond.
Still no answer.
No time left. They broke the door down.
Inside, the room was dark and empty. No signs of life—no shadows, no rustling, no breathing. But what they did find was even more disturbing: a gaping hole in the floor. It looked like it had been carved out with some sort of tool—maybe a shovel or an axe. A tunnel, maybe?
What they didn't know was that there were two such holes.
They saw the first one—the decoy. The one meant to waste their time.
But Johnson had already escaped through the second hole, the one cleverly hidden in a spot difficult to detect without precise searching. That tunnel was narrow but just wide enough for a person to crawl through.
By the time the officers realized, Johnson had vanished into the shadows.
---
THE ESCAPE — CITY STREETS
Outside, the situation had worsened. Protesters surrounded the hotel as the news spread like wildfire. The court bombing, the broadcast, the masked terrorist—everything tied together. Tension was boiling.
But Johnson? He had already escaped the area—narrowly.
As he made his way down the street, one man in the crowd froze. He recognized that face.
"That's... that's him," he whispered.
The same man from the TV. The courtroom bomber. The terrorist.
Without hesitation, the man followed Johnson quietly, dialing emergency services. But Johnson sensed the tail almost immediately. His instincts were too sharp to miss.
He smiled under his breath.
"Let's play."
Johnson began driving in large loops—subtle but intentional. A trap in progress. He avoided suspicion by blending in with traffic, changing lanes, circling back.
The man kept following.
After 25 minutes of this silent chase, Johnson turned into an abandoned warehouse district. A desolate place filled with forgotten concrete and rusting iron.
He parked near a crumbling building and exited, stepping inside.
Was the man still following?
He waited. Watched. Then—yes. The man entered the building.
Johnson's smile widened.
---
THE TERRACE — THE SETUP
They were now both on the terrace. The sky was overcast. Thunder rolled in the distance.
Johnson stood still, breathing slowly.
The man stepped forward cautiously, phone in hand, recording.
The Man: You… You're the guy from the TV. From the court. You're Johnson.
Johnson (grinning): Took you long enough.
He stepped forward, something glinting in his hand.
The Man: Stay back. I've already called the cops. You're finished.
Johnson: No. You're finished.
A silence. Then—
A sudden movement.
---
TO BE CONTINUED...