The crime scene still smelled of iron and rain. Police tape fluttered in the wind, but the crowd had long dispersed, leaving only the echo of whispers.
Detective Kaze crouched beside the body, his gloved fingers hovering over the card that had been placed on the victim's chest. It wasn't just any Joker card. The edges were dipped in crimson, the ink still damp, smearing faintly into the victim's shirt.
Not blood—at least not all of it. A mix of something darker. A deliberate signature.
"This isn't just a murder," Kaze muttered under his breath. His eyes lingered on the scarlet stains. "It's a message… written in crimson."
The younger officers exchanged uneasy glances. None of them wanted to say it aloud, but they all felt it—the killer wasn't hiding. He was watching. Somewhere out there, cloaked in the shadows of the city, the Joker was smiling.
And for the first time in years, Kaze felt the weight of a case press against his chest. This wasn't another criminal. This was a predator who wanted him to play.The rain had thinned to a drizzle, but the alley still reeked of iron. Police tape fluttered, damp and pale under the weak streetlights. Most of the onlookers had gone, leaving only the echo of whispers in the distance.
Detective Kaze stood alone by the body, crouched low, the brim of his coat shadowing his eyes. His gloved hand hovered over the card that rested neatly on the victim's chest.
Not just a Joker card.
The edges were dipped in crimson.
He leaned closer, nostrils flaring slightly. The color wasn't uniform—it was streaked, the way blood darkens as it dries. But this wasn't only blood. Mixed into it was ink, a deep scarlet that seeped into the card's paper fibers, giving it an unnatural gleam.
"This isn't just a murder," Kaze murmured, voice low but firm. "It's a message… written in crimson."
Behind him, a rookie officer shifted uneasily. "Sir, should I bag the card?"
Kaze shook his head slowly. "Not yet." He straightened, studying the victim's rigid face. Eyes wide open, mouth frozen mid-scream. No sign of struggle. "The killer wanted us to see this. To look at the card first, not the body."
Another officer whispered, "Like a signature?"
"No," Kaze corrected, his gaze darkening. "Like an invitation."
The word sank into the air like lead.
---
By midnight, the forensics team arrived. Cameras flashed, gloves rustled, plastic bags crinkled. One of the analysts, Dr. Hanae, knelt beside Kaze. She lifted the crimson card with tweezers, slipping it into a sealed sleeve.
"It's not pure blood," she confirmed. "There's pigment. Ink. Chemical mix. Deliberate."
Kaze nodded. Exactly what he feared. The Joker wasn't just leaving evidence—he was crafting art.
---
Later, as the alley cleared, Kaze remained behind, leaning against the cold brick wall. His chest tightened. Crimson. That color dragged memories he had buried long ago. Another case. Another card. A girl's body. His failure.
He clenched his jaw. Not again.
---
Back at headquarters, the card lay on his desk beneath a harsh white lamp. Kaze sat alone in the evidence room, staring at it. The red stains glowed faintly, as though mocking him.
He flipped the card. The Joker's painted grin stared back—wide, grotesque, endless. But something caught his eye. On the back, etched faintly into the crimson ink, was a symbol: a spiral, small and imperfect, like it had been drawn in haste.
Kaze's pulse quickened. This wasn't random. It was a code.
Just as he leaned closer, a shadow slid beneath the evidence room door.
An envelope.
Kaze froze. He hadn't heard the door open. He hadn't heard footsteps. Yet the envelope was there, plain and pale, marked with a single crimson fingerprint.
He opened it slowly.
Inside: a note scrawled in jagged handwriting.
"Every king needs a jester. Shall we begin, Detective?"
Kaze's hand tightened around the paper.
The Joker wasn't waiting for the city to catch him. He had already chosen his opponent.
And it was Kaze.