The city clock struck midnight. A silence spread through the streets, the kind of silence that felt deliberate — as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Detective Kaze sat in the corner booth of an old diner, his coat draped over the cracked leather seat. The waitress poured him black coffee, but his eyes were fixed not on the cup, but on the door. He was waiting.
Across the room, a man slipped in. Neat suit, calm expression, but there was a sharpness in his movements — calculated, precise. He sat opposite Kaze without a word, sliding a plain envelope across the table.
Kaze didn't touch it.
"You could've mailed it."
The man smirked. "And lose the chance to watch your reaction? Where's the fun in that?"
Kaze studied him. This wasn't an informant, not a criminal he'd chased before. This was someone who wanted to be noticed. A player.
Finally, Kaze opened the envelope. Inside were photographs. Each one captured from angles no ordinary lens could catch — his apartment window, his office, even the diner door just minutes ago.
"You've been inside my life," Kaze muttered.
"No," the man corrected. "I've been inside your mind. That's where the real game is."
For the first time, Kaze felt the unease crawl under his skin. This wasn't about crime or money. This was about control — and he had just realized he was already a piece on someone else's board.
The man stood to leave, dropping a final whisper as he passed by:
"Checkmate begins tomorrow."