Date: 2018/03/18 – Day: Sunday – Time: 11:46 PM – Location: Tokyo
The Tokyo sky on that March night in 2018 was clear and dark, with stars shyly glittering above, while the vivid neon lights reflected off the towering glass buildings, painting the city like a vibrant futuristic canvas.
Amid this glowing scenery, the scene opened on one of the narrow, shadowy alleys, where the sound of ragged breathing seeped between the walls, followed by rapidly approaching footsteps. The running was frantic, tense—like something was chasing the runner, or as if time itself was collapsing behind him.
Everything on the horizon was silent... except those footsteps.
The man was running like his end was at his heels. He wasn't exactly overweight, but his bulging belly bounced with every desperate stride. His Japanese features were soaked in sweat and panic, his wide eyes betraying a raw terror. He wore ordinary clothes.
He tripped over the edge of the curb, crashed to his knees, spat out a short curse, then pushed himself up and kept running without pause. His eyes were frantically searching—for salvation, for shelter—until they landed on an abandoned building, shrouded in dust and cloaked in the fog of forgetfulness.
He lunged through the rusted metal door, which groaned softly, as if protesting the motion. He bolted up the concrete stairs, panting heavily, each step echoing ominously in the empty space.
He reached the third floor, burst into it like something—or someone—was right on his heels. His wild eyes searched for a hiding spot. He saw rows of shelves lined along the walls, most of them empty and dust-covered.
He sprinted to the last shelf at the end of the corridor, slid behind it, and curled himself into the smallest space he could manage. His body trembled, his breath came in sharp bursts he struggled to muffle—air itself seemed to betray him.
Then… silence.
Nothing. No footsteps. No doors. No sounds. Just his heart pounding like it might tear through his chest… and the fear that the thing chasing him might now be standing directly behind him.
At that moment, as the air stood still, the building's door creaked open again with a long, tortured groan—like the rust itself was screaming a warning.
Someone entered… but their face couldn't be seen.
All that was visible were impeccably tailored black trousers and glossy leather shoes, reflecting the neon lights from outside. Every step on the concrete floor was measured, deliberate, heavy with intent. In his right hand, he held a sleek black cane, adorned with fine golden carvings forming the shape of a beautiful… yet poisonous flower.
He stood there for a minute, silent, unmoving. Only his head tilted slowly, as if listening… to something no one else could hear.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, he tapped the cane against the ground once—"Tap."
It wasn't just a sound—it was a declaration of presence.
He turned his gaze—or rather, his whole body—toward the concrete stairs. His steps were quiet, yet decisive. No words, no breath, but his presence filled the room like a storm.
Something about his stance, his slow movement, made the entire building seem like it had forgotten how to breathe… as if the very walls knew who he was, and feared speaking his name.
In the dark corner behind the shelf, the fat man fought to keep his chest from rising too visibly. His knees pressed against the cold floor, and a trembling hand covered his mouth, stifling a sobbing breath that was more panic than oxygen.
He knew… the thing had arrived.
The cane's rhythm on the stairwell wasn't random. No, not at all. It was intentional, steady—like he was beating the drum of death with relish.
Tap… Tap… Tap…
Each tap struck his heart like a hammer sealing his fate. When the sound suddenly stopped at the second floor, his breath froze in his throat. Heavy seconds passed like centuries. No sound… no movement.
"Did he enter the second floor?" he wondered, eyes glued to the door above. Panic danced in his mind: Is this my chance? Should I run? Maybe he got distracted?
But doubt gnawed at his brain like acid: What if it's a trick? What if he's waiting for me to move? What if he never moved at all?
The doubt alone nearly killed him faster than fear.
He froze in place. Didn't move. Barely breathing. Every cell in his body screamed Run! but his instincts were crushed by terror.
He stayed still, waiting for a chance to escape.
As the man waited, ears straining, that sound returned…
Tap… Tap…
But this time… it wasn't coming from the stairwell.
But the sound came from nearby... far too nearby. From between the shelves.
His face drained of all color, as if the blood had abandoned his veins all at once. He realized now—the sound stopping at the second floor had been a trap. The mysterious figure knew what he was doing. He had been toying with his mind, like a cat playing with a mouse.
His limbs began to shake, but he clung to the last shreds of his courage. Tears welled up at the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill, but he pressed his hand harder over his mouth, digging his fingers into his skin.
Tap... Tap...
The footsteps were closer now—right at the shelf.
The old, tall wooden shelf was the only barrier between him and the stranger. Luckily, the shelves were stuffed with dusty boxes, blocking a direct view. Still, he could feel the stranger's breath practically on the back of his neck.
Suddenly, the sound stopped.
The stranger was standing right there, just behind the shelf. A deadly silence passed, as if the entire universe had frozen.
Then... without warning or reason, the stranger turned away. As if a thought struck him. As if some unseen instinct whispered, "Not yet."
He walked away... calmly.
The man waited. Then waited a little longer. When it finally seemed like the danger had passed, he let out a tiny breath—barely audible. Like his lungs had just been released from a prison of terror.
He slowly raised his head and peeked out from behind the shelf. Looked down the hallway... no one. The place was empty.
"I survived..."
That's what he told himself. His imagination began to celebrate. His exhausted face relaxed. His lips almost smiled...
But...
The air in the room froze.
His sagging body went still, and all he could hear now was his heartbeat pounding like funeral drums.
He felt it.
Behind him... standing. Silent. Heavy—like a ghost summoned straight from hell.
And in the corner of his eye, he saw it:
A pure white gun. Unnaturally elegant. On its barrel, delicate golden engravings that resembled royal insignias. It looked like a weapon meant to be used only once... for someone special.
The man's eyes widened. His knees nearly gave out. He began to turn, slowly—as if hoping to delay the moment...
But fate was faster.
And when his eyes finally met those of the stranger—he saw only stillness.
No anger. No mercy. No life.
He opened his mouth to say something—anything...
But the bullet spoke first.
Tap.
The shot pierced his forehead with horrifying precision, embedding itself in his skull without hesitation, dropping him to the floor like a puppet whose strings had just been cut.
He collapsed almost soundlessly, without a fight. Death was swift, clean, final.
The stranger lowered his gun quietly, then let out a slow exhale, as if he'd just lifted a heavy weight off his shoulders.
He walked away from the corpse with steady steps—just as calm as he came—never once looking back.
And just before leaving the building, he spoke in a deep, low voice, like delivering the final word in a funeral prayer:
"Addio." (Italian for Goodbye.)
Then he vanished...
as if he had never been there at all.
To be continued…
1. 💭 In your opinion… who is this mysterious figure? Do you think he's a hired assassin—or something far more complex?
2. 🥀 Why did he say "Addio" in Italian? Does it hint at a specific origin? Mafia? A secret organization? An aristocratic background?
3. 🔍 What do you think the fat man did to deserve such a fate? Was he an innocent victim… or a criminal on the run?
4. 😨 If you were in his shoes… would you have tried to escape? Or hidden like he did?
5. 🌑 Do you think the killer enjoyed what he did? Or was he forced to do it? How would you describe his emotions?
6. 🕶️ Do you expect this mysterious man to be the story's main protagonist… or its central villain?
7. 🔫 What stood out to you most about the killing? The cane? The white gun? Or the eerie calm he maintained?
8. 👀 Do you want to see the killer's face in the next episode? Or would you prefer the mystery to continue?
9. 💥 Do you think this is just the beginning of a murder spree? Or is the story heading in a different direction?
10. 🧠 Do you have a personal theory about the connection between the killer and the victim?
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✦ Final open question:
> ✨ Share your predictions for the next episode!
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