The newsroom smelled faintly of burnt coffee and old paper. Screens flickered on walls, casting a harsh blue glow over the reporters' faces. Each monitor displayed the same image: a small, charred room, broken furniture scattered like the remnants of a nightmare. The camera lingered on a child's backpack, blackened at the edges, straps curled like dead tendrils.
"—and police have yet to identify the perpetrators. Witnesses are scarce, and investigations are ongoing," the anchor's voice droned, calm, rehearsed, but the tremor beneath it betrayed tension. The headline scrolled in bold red letters: "Another Child Missing in City's Growing Shadow Crisis."
In the streets below, parents stopped, hands tightening around little fingers, eyes scanning alleys and dark corners. News vans lined the streets, sirens muted but still a constant presence, reporters whispering urgent updates into cameras while civilians gathered, murmuring about another innocent life lost.
---
Inside the central precinct, Detective Masaru Kageyama slammed a folder onto the table. "This is fucked," he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Around him, maps were pinned with red pushpins, lines marking the locations of bodies—three children, five low-rank heroes, a teenager found last night near the harbor. Patterns emerged: precision, ritualistic staging, and almost no evidence left behind.
"Nothing conventional," Kageyama continued, eyes narrowing at the diagrams. "The cuts, the way the bodies were cleaned—whoever's doing this isn't some street thug. They're professionals."
His partner, Detective Sato, nodded grimly. "And we're short on leads. No witnesses. Civilians either vanished or—" He swallowed hard. "They don't talk. Not a word about what they saw. Some even refuse to come forward. Fear runs deep."
Fear. It wasn't the kind that came from mugging or petty theft. This was raw, palpable, gnawing. It wasn't just that people were dying—it was how they were dying. Methodically. Intentionally. Like every act was meant to send a message.
---
Outside, cameras captured every reaction. Social media flared with speculation, outrage, and fear. Who are these monsters? Are the heroes failing us? How safe is our city? Headlines screamed across digital feeds, each more sensational than the last. The anchor shifted to footage of a parent weeping beside a police cordon, voice trembling, hands clutching a torn school uniform.
"It's not fair! They promised protection!" she sobbed. "They took my baby—my sweet little boy! What good are heroes if they can't even save a child?"
Editors argued over wording, balancing accuracy and impact with ratings. One intern suggested running footage from the harbor incident again. "The public needs to see the reality," he said nervously. But a senior producer shook her head. "Too much. People are already panicking. Keep it measured… for now."
Yet panic seeped in. Schools closed early, children clutched parents' hands tighter, and whispers of abductions by masked figures haunted every conversation.
---
In a sterile government conference room, officials gathered around a polished table. Reports littered the surface—crime stats, surveillance footage, Hero Academy patrol logs. Minister Hoshino pressed his fingers together, brow furrowed.
"We are losing control," he said bluntly. "Three children, several civilians, and minor heroes—gone in a week. If this continues, society's trust in the heroes will collapse. Panic will spread faster than any shadow we're chasing."
Advisors argued in hushed tones. Should they deploy elite heroes citywide? Increase surveillance? Alert the military? Every decision had consequences. Overreaction would spark chaos; underreaction could mean more deaths.
A junior aide spoke up, voice shaking. "Sir… there are reports of strange energy readings at the crime scenes. Residue… almost like… I don't know, some kind of power manipulation?"
Hoshino's eyes narrowed. "Then it's more than mere murder. Dispatch analysts. Verify immediately. No leaks. The public must not know the extent."
Outside, the city moved oblivious. Yet beneath the lights, a current of dread flowed—a sense that something beyond human understanding had begun to claim the streets.
---
Kageyama and Sato walked alleyways and abandoned buildings, flashlights cutting through mist and shadows. Every corner, every overturned crate, every broken lock was examined. They found evidence that made them shiver: traces of smoke, faint purple residue clinging to walls and floorboards, markings in what looked like dried blood forming inverted floral patterns.
Sato whispered, "This… this isn't just murder. It's a message. Some sick shit ritual, maybe."
"Yeah, well, whoever did this, they're professionals. Careful, methodical, and… fucking fearless." Kageyama's eyes scanned the horizon. The city lights shimmered, and yet shadows clung to alleys with an unnatural density. "And they're good at staying invisible."
A young officer ran up, breathless. "Detectives! Another one—child this time. Found at the east dock. Completely… mutilated. No sign of struggle, except… the markings."
Kageyama's stomach sank. This wasn't a pattern of escalating violence. It was a statement. Whoever was behind this wanted society to know fear intimately.
---
As night fell, the city's pulse quickened. Parents pulled children indoors, streets emptied of casual strollers. Shopkeepers shuttered windows earlier than usual. Social media debates turned violent, strangers accusing heroes of negligence, of corruption, of complicity.
News anchors tried to maintain calm, reading statistics in monotone voices while the chaos spilled in behind-the-scenes feeds. Editorial teams decided: only verified footage, no speculation. But whispers had already seeded themselves, and fear grew like a weed in every alley, every home, every unspoken conversation.
In a small neighborhood park, graffiti appeared overnight: a bleeding flower, inverted, scrawled on a wall. Passersby paused, unsure if it was art, a warning, or the ramblings of a disturbed mind. Some took pictures, uploading them with captions: "What the fuck is happening?"
---
By late evening, a detective team arrived at a small apartment in the city's east wing. The scene was macabre: a child's room, toys scattered, a bed untouched. On the wall, faint red markings formed a symbol—an inverted flower, petals dripping like blood. The detectives exchanged uneasy glances.
Kageyama crouched, flashlight glinting against the wall. "What the hell… what kind of sick bastard draws their signature like this?"
No answer came, only the faint hum of the city outside. Somewhere, unseen, the perpetrators watched, smiled, and planned the next step. No one could see them yet, and the authorities had no idea that the real threat was already slipping through their fingers, like smoke curling silently under doors.
---
The camera pans to the skyline, neon lights reflecting on glass towers. Somewhere in the shadows, something moves, precise and deliberate. The city doesn't notice. The world doesn't notice.
And in a tiny room, a purple smear on a wall dries, unnoticed by authorities, a hint of the storm to come.
The screen fades to black, leaving only the distant sound of sirens, and a single whispered thought that no one else will hear:
"They're already here. And they won't stop."