The word checkmate clung to Kaze's ears long after the stranger vanished into the city's midnight haze. The photographs still lay on the table, their glossy surfaces reflecting the dim diner light like silent accusations.
Kaze picked one up — the shot of his apartment window. The blinds had been drawn. Yet, the image showed him inside, writing on his desk. That meant the camera wasn't outside. It was closer. Too close.
He left money for the untouched coffee and slid the envelope into his coat. The air outside was thick with drizzle, but the weight pressing on him was heavier than rain. Whoever this man was, he didn't just know Kaze's moves — he knew his thoughts, his routines, his weaknesses.
Back at the precinct, Kaze locked himself in his office. He pinned the photos to the board, each one stabbing into cork like a wound reopening. The faces of his colleagues passed by his door — curious, unsettled — but none dared to ask. Trust, Kaze realized, was already fracturing. Anyone could be the leak. Anyone could be the shadow feeding the Joker
His phone buzzed. Unknown number.
Kaze hesitated, then answered. Silence. Then, faint breathing.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
A distorted voice replied, calm and deliberate:
"You don't need to know me, Detective. You just need to follow the clues. Tomorrow, another card will surface. If you're as sharp as they say… you'll be there to see it."
The line went dead.
Kaze lowered the phone slowly, his reflection in the dark glass of his office window staring back at him. For the first time in years, the great Detective Kaze wasn't sure if he was leading the case — or being led into a trap.