The cobbled alley behind the wine merchant's plaza reeked of cheap alcohol and blood.
Celeste—known now to the locals as Emma Walker—stepped past the line of curious onlookers, ducking under the tape that marked the perimeter. Her gloved fingers tightened slightly as she took in the scene.
A man in his late fifties, dressed in a merchant's tunic, lay face-up against the wall. Blood pooled beneath his torso. His shirt was torn open, a jagged wound along his side. No defensive wounds. The strike had been fast, maybe even unexpected.
Celeste knelt beside the body, muttering under her breath.
"This wasn't a robbery. Too clean. Too close."
She noted:
No signs of struggle.
Blood spatter concentrated low—suggesting a downward stab.
Purse and jewelry untouched.
A faint scent of lavender on his shirt collar.
She pulled out her small UV flashlight and scanned the area. No fingerprints. No drag marks. But there—a single thread of red wool caught on a splintered crate behind the victim. She bagged it.
"Too careful to leave prints, but not careful enough to avoid splinters," she murmured.
Later, inside her office
Cedric Wynthorne, the officer who brought her the case, leaned against the bookshelf as she reviewed her notes.
"No signs of forced entry or theft," she said, tapping her pen. "Which means personal. The killer knew him."
Cedric frowned. "He was a merchant. Wine and spice trader. Well-liked… no enemies."
"Wrong," Celeste replied, standing. "Everyone has enemies. The trick is finding the one who smiled while holding the knife."
The break came in the form of a receipt.
An old purchase order found folded in the victim's coat pocket. From a tailor's shop.
When Celeste visited, the tailor—a young woman with ink-stained fingers and a nervous twitch—froze when she saw the fabric sample Celeste produced: the red wool thread.
"This is from your stock," Celeste said flatly.
The tailor broke instantly.
"He ruined my life!" she sobbed. "He promised to help fund my shop. I made his clothes for months. Then he pulled out and demanded I pay back every coin in advance!"
"And so you waited. Followed him. Found the alley empty and struck."
The woman nodded tearfully.
She then paused, deep in thought.
No... this isn't right.
She might be the one who killed this man—but this has nothing to do with the Black Veil murder case.
Celeste reached into her coat and pulled out a set of photos—victims of the notorious string of Black Veil murders. Their lifeless faces stared back in stark black and white.
She turned them toward the woman, her voice calm but sharp:
"Did you kill them as well?"
The woman's eyes widened as she saw the photos. For a brief moment, her lips parted—whether in shock, fear, or guilt, it was hard to tell.
"I… I don't know those people," she stammered. "I swear—I've never seen them before!"
Celeste watched her carefully, studying every twitch, every hesitation. She noticed the woman's hands trembling—not from cold, but nerves. Her voice wasn't cracking from grief, but fear.
"Then why does the method of killing match exactly with theirs?" Celeste asked coolly, sliding one photo forward. "Same incision depth. Same post-mortem arrangement. Same lack of fingerprints. Either you're copying a serial killer… or you are one."
The woman backed up slightly, her shoulder hitting the wall behind her. "N-No, I didn't—" She froze. "I only killed him, alright?! Just him! He—he ruined my life! He deserved it!"
Celeste's expression didn't shift. She crossed her arms.
"But they didn't. So tell me again. Are you sure you didn't kill them too?"
Tears welled in the woman's eyes. Her breathing grew erratic.
"I didn't kill them," she said shakily. "I just wanted him gone. That's all. I even wore gloves—I was careful. But those other deaths? They're not mine…"
Celeste studied her a moment longer, then finally spoke—quiet, deliberate.
"…Then that means the real Black Veil Killer is still out there."
Celeste stepped outside the dim apartment, the cold night air brushing against her coat. She glanced once more at the woman inside—now slumped on the floor, handcuffed and still trembling. With steady fingers, she pulled out a sleek black communicator and dialed the precinct.
"Get me Cedric Wynthorne," she said into the receiver, her voice calm and clipped.
A minute passed. Then came the familiar voice.
"This is Cedric. What can I help you with?"
She glanced at the open notebook in her hand. "It's me."
"Ah—Miss Walker. How's the investigation progressing?"
Celeste let out a quiet sigh. "Half great. I've got the killer… but she's not the one we're looking for."
A brief pause followed.
"Explain."
"The murder I was sent to investigate—the one with the mutilated man—was committed by this woman. She just confessed. Motive: personal revenge. She was methodical, yes, but not a professional. No ties to the previous victims."
She opened her case file and slid a few photos back in.
"The catch is, the crime scene mimics the exact pattern we've seen with the Black Veil murders—right down to the wounds and staging. But she had nothing to do with the others. She didn't even know those victims. Either she's lying, or…"
"Or we're dealing with a copycat," Cedric finished grimly.
"Or something worse," she added. "Either way, I'm sending her in. Have your men pick her up. Interrogate her thoroughly—you'll get your confession."
"Understood. Sending a squad now."
"One more thing," she said, pausing as her eyes scanned the nearby alleyway. "Make sure to pull records on her recent purchases, her movements over the last few weeks… and cross-reference her with the original victims anyway. Just in case."
"Will do. Good work."
Celeste hung up and looked back toward the woman inside the apartment. Her hands were stained, but her eyes—the fear there was real. Too real for someone responsible for multiple calculated murders.
Which meant…
The real Black Veil killer was still out there.
And watching.
Celeste opened her notebook again, flipping to the page filled with scribbled deductions and diagrammed timelines. Her violet eyes narrowed, scanning her notes.
"This is too calculated," she murmured under her breath.
She tapped her pen thoughtfully against her chin. The blood pattern, the methodical arrangement of wounds, the silent execution—it all screamed precision, yet the woman inside lacked the emotional detachment of a serial killer.
A few minutes later, the precinct squad arrived. Their boots echoed down the hallway as they entered the apartment and cuffed the suspect. The woman—bruised, pale, and trembling—was silent… until, for the briefest of moments, she let out a small grin.
It was subtle. Almost imperceptible. But Celeste saw it.
And it sent a chill down her spine.
She didn't say anything—not yet. She watched as the squad led the woman out. Then Cedric stepped in beside her.
"So, we got a killer… but not the killer we were looking for," he said, arms crossed.
Celeste closed her notebook with a quiet snap. "Not really."
Cedric raised a brow. "You disagree?"
"I think we're on the right track," she said calmly. "It might not be just one person."
He looked at her, confused.
Celeste continued, "This doesn't feel like the work of a lone murderer anymore. It's too neat. Too consistent across unrelated victims. No direct links between them… and yet, the killing style is identical."
"You're thinking a group?" Cedric asked, his tone darkening.
She nodded. "Not an organized crime ring—at least not formally. But perhaps a network. A handful of individuals who share a goal… or a hatred."
She looked down the hallway where the suspect had vanished.
"And someone's pulling the strings in the background. Someone who knows how to mask their involvement. A puppet master, hiding in plain sight."
Cedric frowned. "You're basing this on a hunch?"
"No," Celeste said. "On a grin."
He blinked. "A grin?"
"I saw her smirk—right before your squad grabbed her. That wasn't fear or defeat. That was pride. As if she believed she'd already won. It was deliberate. Subtle. Calculated."
She turned to him, her expression serious.
"Don't let her kill herself in custody. If I'm right, she's not scared because she's part of something bigger… and someone might want to silence her before she talks."
Cedric gave a sharp nod. "I'll make sure she's watched closely."
"Good," Celeste said, tucking her notebook away. "Because if we're truly dealing with a hidden circle of killers, this was just the first thread."
The following morning, Celeste arrived at the second crime scene—a small alley tucked between two aging brick buildings at the edge of the merchant district. The autumn air was crisp, and the early fog still lingered low to the ground. A faded yellow CRIME SCENE – DO NOT CROSS tape fluttered gently in the wind, barely clinging to the rusted poles it had been tied to months ago.
Celeste ducked under the tape, her boots echoing faintly against the uneven cobblestone. She crouched down near a dark stain on the ground.
The blood had turned a deep rust-brown, almost blending with the dirt and grime.
No body remained—just the lingering aura of violence.
"Two months ago," she muttered to herself, scanning the surroundings. "And yet no suspects, no witnesses brave enough to speak, and no leads left behind…"
But Celeste knew better than to trust first glances.
She pulled out a small tool kit from her bag and began dusting nearby surfaces for residual prints, scanning the area with a forensic light. The pale blue beam illuminated the faint outlines of smeared shoe prints leading deeper into the alley—faint, but distinguishable.
"One set of prints heading in. Smaller foot size… roughly a woman's. No prints leading out. Odd."
She took a photo and jotted down the observation.
Then, she noticed something odd near the edge of a broken crate tucked against the wall.
A single gloved fingerprint—partially smudged but visible under UV.
She snapped another photo and carefully collected a swab for analysis.
Next, her eyes wandered upward. On the brick wall, something faint—a carved symbol, barely scratched into the old surface. It looked like a half-finished flower… or perhaps, a rosebud?
Her brows furrowed.
"This again… the same kind of mark as the previous crime."
She traced the lines lightly with her gloved finger, confirming it wasn't graffiti or random damage.
Lastly, tucked in the corner behind a trash bin, something metallic caught the sunlight. She crouched and retrieved it—a small, silver hairpin, shaped like a feather. Blood-stained. Forgotten.
"Why wasn't this logged in the original report?"
She held it up thoughtfully. The design was too delicate for the average street dweller. This belonged to someone with taste—or status.
Celeste stood slowly, eyes narrowing.
"Not much to work with? Wrong. There's always something left behind."
She took one last look at the darkened bloodstain, then turned away.
"Now to trace the hairpin, the symbol… and whoever thought they were clever enough to walk away unseen."
Celeste stepped away from the bloodstained corner of the alley and pulled out her communicator. She pressed the dial and waited for the click.
"Connect me to Sir Cedric, please."
A short pause, then his familiar voice came through the line. "Wynthorne here."
"It's me," she said smoothly. "Emma Walker."
"Ah, Miss Walker. What is it?"
"I've found something interesting at the second crime scene—something that might push the case forward. I could trace it myself, but since the scene falls under your jurisdiction, I figured I'd do this the proper way. I'll be sending the collected evidence to you shortly."
There was a pause on the other end, then a measured response.
"That would be appreciated. I'll be at the precinct waiting for your arrival."
"Understood," she replied before ending the call.
Celeste looked once more at the symbol carved into the wall and the silver hairpin glinting in her evidence pouch.
Let's see what secrets you're hiding
Later that day at the precinct…
Cedric laid the silver hairpin on the table between them. "It's been traced. Belonged to a noblewoman named Lilia Goldbride."
Celeste's eyes narrowed. "The victim?"
He nodded. "Confirmed."
She exhaled quietly, almost disappointed. "Then it doesn't get us closer to the killer. Just confirms the obvious."
Cedric watched her flip open her worn notebook, her gloved fingers turning to the latest page.
"But I didn't leave empty-handed," she said, her voice cool. "I found a few things that don't belong in a noblewoman's alley."
He raised an eyebrow. "Such as?"
"Burnt wax residues—ritualistic. Not from standard street lighting or lanterns. Whoever did this lit ceremonial candles. Deliberately."
Cedric frowned, listening intently.
She continued. "There were shallow markings scratched into the stone wall. Not random—deliberate. They form a pattern. Possibly a sigil."
"A sigil?"
She nodded. "Old, unfamiliar. But it's structured. Could be tied to a group. I'll start cross-referencing it tonight."
Cedric leaned forward. "Anything else?"
"A faint trail of boot prints, heading west through the alley. Military-grade treads. Definitely not worn by nobles. And too careful to be left unintentionally."
Celeste closed her notebook with a quiet snap, her violet eyes unreadable.
Celeste: "What about the woman you brought in earlier—has she said anything strange?"
Cedric shook his head, frustration evident in his posture.
Cedric: "She keeps repeating the same thing… over and over. 'I did what I had to. I did what I had to.' No elaboration. No remorse."
Celeste: "So, she's holding back." Her voice was calm, but there was a slight edge beneath it.
Celeste: "Where is she now?"
Cedric: "Still in custody. We've placed her in maximum security—no chances taken. She tried to bite through her own tongue once, so we had to strap her mo—"
Suddenly, the door to the room slammed open.
Suddenly, the door to the room slammed open.
A breathless officer stood there, pale and panicked.
Officer: "Sir! There's been a breach in the underground holding cells!"
The room went silent. Cedric immediately stood.
Cedric: "What?"
Officer: "The power flickered for just under ten seconds. When it came back, one of the cell doors was wide open. She's gone, sir."
Celeste's eyes sharpened.
Celeste: "That wasn't an escape… it was an extraction."
Celeste and Cedric descended quickly into the dim corridors of the underground holding cells. The atmosphere was tense, the hum of emergency lights flickering above them casting long shadows along the damp stone floor.
They reached the open cell—its heavy metal door swung ajar, the restraints inside hanging loosely as if taunting them.
Celeste narrowed her eyes. "So the theory stands… this really is the work of a group. A coordinated extraction. This level of precision isn't something a lone killer could pull off."
Cedric let out a low growl, dragging a hand across his face in frustration. "Now is not the time for confirmation, Miss Walker. We just lost our prime lead!"
Celeste: "Apologies. Just… connecting the threads. We're too late either way."
Cedric: "Damn it." He turned sharply to the officers rushing in behind them.
Cedric: "Seal off all exits! I want a full sweep of the precinct—top to bottom. Check the vents, hallways, loading docks. I want eyes everywhere. She cannot be far."
The officers saluted and scattered in a flurry of radio static and echoing footsteps.
Celeste remained calm, watching the chaos unfold before her.
Celeste: "It's no use. She's long gone. Whoever pulled this off had an escape plan timed to the second. Ten seconds of blackout? That wasn't random—it was rehearsed."
Cedric: "We still have to try." His voice was firm but tinged with defeat. "We can't afford to let her disappear. If we lose her now, we may never get this group again."
Celeste: "Then we need to find the next thread before they cut it."
She looked back at the cell once more—the subtle scent of iron lingering in the air, the faint scuff of a boot on the floor, the shadow of something far bigger behind this escape.
This wasn't over. It was only just beginning.
The large conference room was dimly lit, the soft hum of the projector casting blue light across the table. Around the long mahogany meeting table sat key figures of Silverpalace's law enforcement:
Chief Commissioner Reinhardt Vale – the head of the entire Silverpalace law enforcement division.
Deputy Commissioner Alina Cross – in charge of special task operations.
Commander Grant Wexley – head of Tactical Response and High-Risk Crimes.
Captain Elric Dorne – lead of the Criminal Investigation Division.
Lieutenant Cedric Wynthorne – liaison to external consultants and investigator of the "Black Veil" case.
And seated among them, not in uniform but with an undeniable presence, was Celeste Noir, under the guise of Emma Walker, independent detective.
Chief Commissioner Vale cleared his throat and glanced across the table. "We have a crisis on our hands. A detainee linked to the Black Veil killings has escaped from our highest-security holding. Lieutenant Wynthorne, report."
Cedric stood, a file in hand. "Approximately 0400 hours, a breach occurred in our underground containment wing. Power fluctuation was observed, giving the assailants a fifteen-second window. The cell door was manually overridden from the inside. The prisoner vanished without a trace."
Commander Wexley slammed a hand on the table. "This is a direct failure of our tactical protocols. Who was monitoring the system logs?"
Deputy Commissioner Cross interjected calmly. "The logs were wiped remotely—this was a precision job. They knew exactly where our eyes were… and where they weren't."
Captain Dorne: "That woman wasn't acting alone. She's either part of a splinter cell or a puppet of something bigger."
All eyes turned to Celeste, who had been quietly flipping through her own notes.
Celeste: "You're right. I believe the escape confirms what I observed: she's not the main culprit. She's a pawn—perhaps one of many."
Vale: "Miss Walker, you were the last one to interrogate her. Did she say anything worth noting?"
Celeste: "She said nothing. But her silence wasn't fear—it was loyalty. She smiled as she was taken away, like someone assured of a rescue. My deduction is that we're looking at a loosely connected web, not an organization in the traditional sense. Think of it like a string of vendettas… each killer striking their own targets, but coordinated by a shadow figure."
Wexley scoffed. "We're talking about vigilantes now?"
Celeste: "No. Not justice. These killings are personal. Emotional. Revenge-driven. But someone's giving them the means… the timing… the escape."
Cedric: "You think there's a mastermind?"
Celeste: "Not just a mastermind. A conductor of chaos. And she—or he—just silenced our best lead."
A beat of silence followed. Then the Chief Commissioner leaned forward.
Chief Commissioner Vale: "So what do you suggest, Miss Walker?"
Celeste looked up, her violet eyes sharp.
"Give me access to every closed case with similar M.O.s over the past five years—especially ones deemed 'revenge motivated.' I'll find the next killer before they act. But I need full clearance."
The room shifted uncomfortably. Grant Wexley looked ready to object, but Vale raised a hand.
Vale: "You'll have it. Effective immediately, Miss Walker is an auxiliary investigator under the direct authority of this council."
Deputy Commissioner Cross: "We'll prepare the clearance. Get what you need. And be careful… whoever's behind this already knows you're on their trail."
Celeste gave a small nod. "I hope they do."
Stacks of old case files towered on Celeste's desk like miniature buildings ready to collapse. Her once-pristine desk was now a battlefield of documents, half-drunk tea, and ink-stained notes. She leaned back in her chair, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration.
Celeste (muttering):
"This is tiring... All these cases have different motives. Some are fueled by vengeance, some by desperation. Others…"
She flipped through a file with a slight grimace.
"…jealousy, financial ruin, twisted justice, and even… pity?"
She scribbled on a sticky note:
Hatred: 50%
Jealousy
Greed
Twisted morality
Guilt
Envy
Obsession
Celeste (sighing):
"The only common thread is emotional instability. But that's not a strong enough link... unless someone's exploiting it."
She turned back to a particular file — a seemingly insignificant case from four months ago. A man found dead in his study, cause: poisoning. Initially ruled a suicide. But the victim had received a single red petal in the mail three days before his death — a detail buried in the coroner's notes.
Celeste (eyes narrowing):
"Wait… a red petal?"
She rummaged through another file and then another, her eyes scanning rapidly.
"There it is again... and here. Three different victims, three different causes of death—but all of them received a red petal."
She circled the petal reference in red ink.
Celeste:
"This might be helpful."
She got up and began pacing.
"If this is correct… then these weren't random killings. The petal is a message. A signature."
She returned to her desk and opened her notes on the timeline of killings. Her eyes traced down the most recent date.
Celeste (quietly):
"…and after that last escape… nothing."
She glanced at the calendar. It had been seven days.Not a single new murder. Not even a report of a suspicious death.
Celeste:
"They know I'm on their trail. That or they're waiting… watching. Planning their next move carefully."
She flipped her notebook shut and muttered under her breath:
"Good. That means I'm close."
She murmured, almost to herself:
"If they've realized someone's tracing them… that means they're going quiet because they're watching."
Her gaze fell to the center of her board — where she'd pinned her own alias: Emma Walker.
A slow realization crept in.
She picked up her pen and, with a slow, deliberate motion, circled the name.
"Me.
Their next target is… me."
As if they had heard her realization—
The lights in the agency flickered once, then cut out.
A moment of silence. Then—
CRASH!
The front door shattered inward, shards of glass spraying across the floor like ice.
Footsteps. Heavy. Purposeful.
Shrouded in black robes, faces obscured by cloth masks and hoods, a group of intruders stormed into the Emma Detective Agency. The air turned cold with their presence.
One of them stepped forward, his voice low and distorted:
"You shouldn't have taken the case, detective."
Celeste stood still. Calm. Calculating.
Her hand slowly reached beneath her desk—toward the holster hidden there.
"And you shouldn't have come here," she replied, eyes narrowed, voice sharp as a blade.
They moved fast.
But Celeste was faster.
As the first attacker lunged at her, she dropped low behind her desk, drawing her hidden dagger in one hand and firing a small flash round from a custom pocket device in the other.
BLINDING LIGHT.
The robed figures stumbled, momentarily disoriented.
Celeste slid across the floor, slicing behind one attacker's knee, dropping him instantly with a precision strike. Another swung a metal pipe—she blocked it with her coat arm, reinforced with hidden plating, then elbowed him across the jaw.
CRACK.
Two more advanced with daggers. Celeste flipped a switch under her desk.
Two more advanced with daggers. Celeste flipped a switch under her desk.
Steel panels dropped down, locking the front entrance.
Now they were trapped inside with her.
Three minutes later…
The floor of the agency was scattered with unconscious assailants, zip-tied and gagged. Celeste stood over them, breathing steady.
She tapped her comm device.
Celeste: "This is Walker. I've got multiple intruders down. Sending coordinates to the precinct."
Later that night, at the precinct…
Cedric stood in front of the holding cell, eyeing the black-robed figures now restrained and silent.
Cedric: "You really brought down all of them by yourself?"
Celeste adjusted her gloves calmly.
Celeste: "Seven of them. And they weren't amateurs. One even had a tranquilizer dart laced with something… unfamiliar. Might want your lab team to take a look."
Cedric (low whistle): "Remind me never to get on your bad side."
She turned to face him, her tone colder.
Celeste: "They weren't here to scare me, Cedric. They were here to silence me. Which means we're closer than ever."
Cedric: "You think the puppet master is watching?"
Celeste: "I don't think, Cedric. I know."
Inside the holding cells, the black-robed intruders sat cuffed and silent. Their expressions unreadable beneath the bruises and restraint. The air was thick with tension—the kind that only followed failed assassinations.
Cedric stood by the reinforced glass, jaw tight.
Celeste stepped up beside him, gaze locked onto the prisoners.
Celeste: "Last time, you let one slip through your fingers."
Cedric flinched slightly.
Celeste (calm but sharp): "You think they won't try again? Think again."
She turned to him slowly, violet eyes glinting under the precinct lights.
Celeste: "I want triple security. Armed watch around the clock. No movement in or out without clearance—my clearance."
Cedric: "You have my word, we'll—"
Celeste (cutting him off): "Your word wasn't enough last time."
A beat of silence. Then she waved a hand dismissively at him.
Celeste: "Do not let them disappear again, Cedric."
She stepped away, coat swaying behind her.
Celeste: "Because if they vanish one more time… I won't just be coming for them."
She didn't wait for a reply.
As she walked toward the exit, the precinct officers parted wordlessly. The sound of her heeled boots echoed through the hall.
Outside, the cold Silverpalace wind brushed against her coat as she disappeared into the night.
Another week had passed. No new killings, no strange cases, no petals left behind—just quiet.
Too quiet.
Celeste sat at her desk, pen in hand, flipping through her notebook filled with scribbled clues, timelines, and victim profiles.
She underlined several entries:
"Victim locations: evenly spread across Silverpalace outskirts"
"All victims: personal trauma with unknown figures—records deliberately sealed?"
"Red petals only appear when a 'message' is needed—ritualistic or coded?"
She added one more:
"Silence = recalibration. They're hunting me."
She leaned back and murmured, "I'm the threat now. They know I'm too close."
That was when she heard it—a soft, deliberate step above her head.
The attic.
She moved swiftly, grabbing the side holster and drawing her sleek custom handgun. Her violet eyes narrowed as she stepped toward the narrow staircase leading upward. Not a creak betrayed her approach.
At the attic door, she didn't hesitate.
Celeste (coldly): "Let's not waste time. Come out."
The wooden boards creaked again—and then a figure dropped down from the attic entrance, cloaked in a familiar black robe. Two more followed behind, their masked faces obscured.
Celeste (unshaken): "Three this time. Getting braver, are we?"
One of the masked intruders stepped forward. A woman's voice, sharp and venom-laced, answered her.
Robe Woman: "You should've turned down the case. Now we're the only mystery left for you to solve."
Celeste (raising her weapon): "You're not a mystery. You're predictable."
Another figure snarled.
Robe Man: "Predictable? You weren't supposed to survive the first strike."
Celeste (mockingly): "You think robes make you immortal? I dropped the last group at the precinct."
Robe Woman: "We noticed. They're already gone."
That made Celeste's expression darken.
Celeste: "So I was right. Cedric couldn't hold them."
Robe Man (grinning behind the mask): "This ends tonight."
Celeste (steadying her aim): "You're right. It does."
The moment the words left his mouth, Celeste moved.
A flash of silver.
A bang echoed through the agency.
The first bullet shattered a masked attacker's knee.
He collapsed with a shriek, weapon clattering from his grasp before he could even react.
The others lunged, but Celeste had already disappeared behind a shelf. Her coat flared as she rolled out, drawing a concealed blade from her boot.
Robe Woman swung a baton—swift, practiced, military-style.
Celeste caught it with her gloved hand, twisting and dislocating the woman's wrist in one fluid motion.
Celeste (coldly):
"Next time, pick a leader who trains harder."
She slammed the woman's face into the wall, knocking her out cold.
The third attacker tried to run—big mistake.
Celeste fired once. The shot tore through his shoulder, spinning him to the floor with a grunt. She walked over, heel echoing against the wooden boards.
He tried to beg, but she kicked his weapon away and pressed her foot to his throat.
Celeste (dead calm):
"You brought this on yourself. You come for me again, you won't be crawling away."
He whimpered.
But she wasn't done.
Celeste handcuffed all three—tight—then tied cloth into their mouths to prevent biting off tongues. She tied their arms with zipcord and immobilized their legs with reinforced cuffs.
No escape. No death-by-silence.
She opened her agency phone and called Cedric.
Celeste:
"Clean-up required. Three new trash bags outside my door. This time—make sure they don't vanish."
Cedric (on the other end, stunned):
"Again…? How many?"
Celeste:
"Three. Send your best. If they disappear again, I'll drag the next batch to your office myself."
She hung up.
Outside, rain began to fall. She dragged the masked trio into the alley behind her agency and chained them to a steel post under the overhang.
Before turning back inside, she glanced over her shoulder one last time.
Celeste (quietly):
"You won't be the last. But I'll make sure you're the most terrified."
That night, in the dimly lit office of the Emma Detective Agency, Celeste stared down at her board — strings, photos, files, locations, and one central symbol: a crimson petal.
She exhaled slowly and murmured:
Celeste:
"Red petals at every scene. The scattered timelines. The differing victims. Motives born of hatred, revenge... and one common origin."
Her violet eyes moved to the map pinned on the wall.
She had noticed it earlier — a discreet pattern in the victims' locations, forming a crescent around a single untouched zone: Verdance Hollow, the forest just beyond the city's jurisdiction, known for its wild terrain and feral beasts.
A place no ordinary investigator would step into without backup.
But Celeste was no ordinary investigator.
Clue Breakdown:
Hairpin (Victim #2): Traced back to a noble who once owned a manor near Verdance Hollow. Now abandoned.
Blood smear (Victim #4): Contained traces of wolfbane, a herb native only to that forest.
Red petal: Identified as a preserved variant from a crimson orchid extinct in Silverpalace but growing in Verdance's deeper layers.
Captured assailants: Two carried insignias hidden beneath their robes — a coiled serpent around a red bloom. Ancient assassins' cult symbol.
Celeste (writing in her notes):
"They're not just killing for vengeance. They're cleansing. Erasing those tied to something deeper — maybe betrayal, secrets... power."
She loaded her gear: UV flashlight, hidden blades, a small pistol, smoke pellets, reinforced boots, and her signature cane-sword.
She walked out under the moonlight.
Deep in Verdance Hollow…
The air was thick with damp mist and the heavy cries of unseen beasts. But Celeste walked undeterred, her steps light, her senses sharp.
An hour in, she found the signs:
Multiple boot tracks.
Broken branches — purposeful, not random.
A faint hum — generator?
She followed the subtle scent of smoke until she saw it — a concealed bunker entrance behind the roots of a massive, ancient tree.
Two sentries, dressed in black robes, stood at attention, armed with silent crossbows.
Celeste (whispering):
"Perfect."
She climbed a branch silently above them. With swift precision, she dropped behind one and struck him unconscious with the hilt of her blade. The other turned — too slow.
She flipped over his shoulder and choked him out silently.
Celeste (to herself):
"This ends tonight."
She turned toward the hidden base, blades drawn, her coat catching the light of the moon.
Celeste stepped inside the dimly lit hut.
The scent of damp wood, blood, and gunpowder clung to the air. In the center, seated like a queen on a crude chair, was the escaped woman — the first killer to elude justice — now surrounded by six others, all cloaked in black, faces hidden.
Their posture was poised. Weapons ready.
Celeste's grip tightened on her cane-sword.
Celeste (coldly):
"So I finally got the big fish… how lucky."
The woman smirked.
"No, detective. You just stepped into the pond where the piranhas wait to feast."
And with that, chaos erupted.
The Fight Ensues
One assassin lunged with twin daggers — Celeste side-stepped and hooked the blade of her cane into his knee, forcing him to collapse before she delivered a swift strike to his temple.
A second one aimed a crossbow from behind.
Celeste dove into a roll, the bolt grazing her coat, and threw a smoke pellet, veiling the room in violet fog.
The assassins coughed and staggered.
She emerged behind them like a shadow — disarming one, then kicking another into a table, breaking it in half.
Two more surrounded her with curved blades.
Assassin:
"You can't fight forever, detective "
Celeste (calmly):
"I'm not fighting forever. Just long enough to end you."
She parried both blades at once, twisting gracefully and drove a hidden blade into one's side, then unleashed a precise fencing strike through the other's shoulder.
One by one, they fell.
Silence returned.
Celeste stood alone, breathing steady.
Until — she froze.
She felt it. A presence. Eyes watching from behind the rafters of the hut — not fighting… observing.
She spun and bolted through the back exit. In the thick forest, a hooded figure darted through the trees.
Celeste: "You're not slipping away this time."
She raised her pistol and fired three precise shots.
Thud.
The figure fell, rolling down the hill and slamming into a log.
Celeste approached slowly.
Heart steady. Gun aimed.
She bent down and flipped the hood back.
Her eyes narrowed.
A pale, fine-featured man with a noble's sigil sewn into his inner collar — Gold lace. Velvet trim.
Celeste (flatly): "Of course… a noble."
His eyes fluttered open, pain shooting through him.
Noble:
"You… have no idea what you're meddling with…"
Celeste (raising her blade):
"Oh, I know exactly what I'm meddling with."
She turned to the small insignia pinned to his lapel — a red orchid on a silver crest.
"You're going to tell me everything."
With the noble wounded and the remaining murderers either unconscious or too injured to resist, Celeste secured them with cuffs from her coat's inner lining. She pressed a pressure point behind the noble's ear, causing him to hiss in pain.
Celeste (calmly, coldly):
"You have two options. Talk now, or talk later in a cell where no one believes a noble like you could stoop to murder."
The noble groaned, then chuckled weakly.
"You're smart, detective. Smart enough to know someone like me won't rot without taking others down too..."
She knelt beside him.
Celeste:
"Then drag them down. Start talking."
And talk he did.
Within the next two hours, all captured assassins confessed, under Celeste's sharp interrogations and the threat of exposure. The noble — identified as Lord Percival Raventhorn — revealed a chilling scheme:
He funded and protected the murderers behind the "Black Veil" killings.
Each murderer acted on personal vendettas, but Raventhorn gave them access, shelter, and resources.
Their signature? A single red petal left as a twisted message to inspire fear — a tactic orchestrated by Raventhorn himself.
An Hour Later – At the Scene
Celeste dialed Cedric.
Celeste:
"Bring your best men. Bring your superiors too. The nest is full, and I have names that reach your city's aristocracy."
When Cedric and his high-ranking officers — including Chief Inspector Hadrian Voss of Silverpalace — arrived, they were stunned.
The hut was filled with shackled suspects, the floor littered with stained robes and hidden documents Celeste had uncovered.
Cedric (breathless):
"You really… brought them all down."
Celeste (dryly):
"Told you not to let them escape again. I made sure this time."
Chief Hadrian Voss walked past the restrained noble and removed his glove.
Hadrian:
"Lord Raventhorn… the Silver Council will want words. You're done."
Raventhorn spat on the ground but remained silent.
Celeste handed over the files.
"Everything you need is here. Their base, funding trail, motives… and a list of potential accomplices who haven't gotten their hands dirty yet."
One Month Later – Peace Restored
The front page of the Silverpalace Gazette read:
>🔎 BLACK VEIL MURDERERS CAPTURED – NOBLE SCANDAL SHAKES SILVERPALACE
After years of bloodshed and fear, the infamous Black Veil murder case has officially been closed. Thanks to the anonymous detective "Emma Walker," a group of vigilante killers was exposed and dismantled — including their noble benefactor, Lord Raventhorn. All suspects have been sentenced, and the streets of Silverpalace finally breathe easier…
Back at the Emma Detective Agency
A warm breeze swept through the open window.
Celeste sat by her desk, sipping tea, the files finally closed. Her disguise remained in place — for the public, she was still "Emma Walker," a humble detective on the outskirts of Silverpalace.
Cedric entered casually, holding two cups of coffee.
Cedric:
"They're calling you the 'Ghost of Justice' now. Has a nice ring to it."
Celeste (smirking):
"I prefer 'the genius detective'. Has more mystery."
Cedric:
"Well, Silverpalace sleeps easier. Thanks to you."
Celeste (quietly):
"They won't sleep forever. There are always shadows beneath the lantern."
She looked at the locked cabinet beside her desk.
Already, a new file was waiting inside. A new name. A new case.