The main conference room at Interpol's global headquarters in Lyon was a chamber of ghosts. Holographic screens floated in the air, displaying the grim gallery of the new world order. On one side, the faces of criminals from around the globe, all marked with the same clinical epitaph: DECEASED - CARDIAC ARREST. On the other, the gruesome tableaus from Japan, each a nightmarish work of art signed with the initials B.B.
Director Jean-Pierre Dubois, a man whose face seemed permanently etched with fatigue, gestured to the two distinct sets of images.
"Two months," he said, his voice gravelly. "In two months, we have two distinct, god-like entities murdering criminals on a global scale. One is a silent executioner, the other a demented artist. What do we have?"
A young, sharp analyst named Kenji Tanaka spoke up. "Sir, the internet has given the first killer a name: 'Kira.' It's viral. There are believers, worshippers even. They see Kira as a divine hand, cleansing the world."
An older, more traditional agent from London scoffed. "Worshippers? They're celebrating mass murder! This is madness. Something like this has never happened in the history of mankind."
"And that's the problem," Dubois countered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "How do you profile a killer who can induce a heart attack from halfway across the world? How do you track a monster who leaves behind only... poetry and nightmares?"
He gestured to an evidence bag on the central table. Inside lay the strange, straw talisman from the latest B.B. scene. It seemed to absorb the light in the room, a point of absolute darkness.
The room fell into an uneasy silence, the weight of their futility pressing down on them all. The agent from Scotland Yard stared at the talisman with a desperate, haunted look.
"This is a task for phantoms, for legends," he muttered, more to himself than anyone. "If only... if only a great detective, any one of the greats, could just walk through that door and get us out of this mess."
As his words faded, the straw talisman on the table twitched.
A low hum filled the room, and the air above the conference table shimmered like a heat haze. The scent of ozone, old paper, and rain-soaked London streets filled the air.
With a sudden, violent CRUMP, reality seemed to fold and then disgorge its contents. A chaotic heap of tweed, wool, and something sleekly synthetic crashed onto the mahogany table, sending papers and coffee cups flying.
From the pile, a Belgian man with an immaculate mustache sputtered, "Mon Dieu! My hat!"
A tall, wiry man with a deerstalker cap landed with a groan, followed by a sturdy-looking man with a military bearing who immediately tried to help him up. "Holmes, are you alright?"
An android with an illuminated LED circle on his temple sat up perfectly, his movements unnerving in their precision.
And a pale young man in a loose white shirt and jeans untangled himself, landing silently on the floor in a low crouch, his dark eyes wide with a profound and unsettling emptiness.
The only one spared the indignity was a kindly-looking elderly woman in a simple twin-set, who had appeared beside the table and landed on her feet with the gentle grace of a cat.
The Interpol officials stared, frozen in utter disbelief.
Director Dubois was the first to find his voice, a choked, incredulous whisper. "Umm... gentlemen... and lady. Please... excuse us for a moment."
He practically herded his stunned colleagues out of the room, shutting the heavy door behind them and leaving the five men and one woman in a state of shared, bewildered silence.
Dr. Watson was the first to break it, ever the practical physician. "Good heavens! Is everyone alright? No broken bones?" He began instinctively checking on the others.
Hercule Poirot, having been helped up by a flustered Captain Hastings, was frantically trying to straighten his mustache. "Broken bones? Hastings, my friend, my dignity has suffered a most grievous blow! And my patent leather shoes are scuffed!"
Sherlock Holmes ignored them all. He was already pacing, his sharp eyes darting around the room, taking in the holographic screens, the seamless glass walls, the unfamiliar technology. "Observe, Watson," he said, his voice electric with intellectual fervor. "Electric lights with no visible filament. Screens of pure luminescence. We are not in Baker Street, that much is certain. The question is not where, but when."
"It's all very... peculiar, isn't it?" a soft voice commented. Miss Marple smiled gently, her knitting needles seeming to have appeared in her hands from nowhere. "Almost like something out of a rather fanciful novel."
The android stood. His LED cycled from yellow to a calm blue. "My internal chronometer indicates the current date is Tuesday, September 2nd, 2025. The time is 11:10 AM, Coordinated Universal Time."
The revelation struck the room like a physical blow.
"1925?" Captain Hastings asked hopefully.
"2025," the android, Connor, corrected politely.
Poirot looked horrified. "Sacre bleu! It cannot be!"
Watson paled. "2025? Holmes, that's impossible! That would make us..."
"Irrelevant, Watson. Or perhaps, more relevant than ever," Holmes mused, a dangerous glint in his eye. The shock was already giving way to the thrill of an unparalleled puzzle.
Only two of the newcomers were unfazed by the date. Connor, for whom it was simply data, and the crouching young man, L. He had remained silent, observing the others from his peculiar perch, a thumb pressed against his lips. He felt nothing about the year, but the images on the screens... Kira. B.B. The names meant nothing to him, yet they sent a shiver down his spine. A deep, gnawing sense of déjà vu. A killer who can murder from afar. A theatrical rival. It felt... familiar. Like a game he was supposed to be playing, a game he had played a thousand times before in a life he couldn't recall. The taste of strawberry cake and black coffee ghosted on his tongue.
The door to the conference room opened.
Director Dubois stood there, his face a mask of desperation and fragile hope. He looked at the impossible collection of geniuses before him.
"If you would please come with us," he said, his voice heavy with the fate of the world. "There is... a debriefing."