One thing about him was clear—he love's mystery.
Not the kind in novels or puzzles, but the raw, bleeding kind that lived in real people.
Mystery is his drug, his obsession. That was why becoming a detective wasn't a choice.
It was inevitable.
His Code name Solved.
He strolled down the neon-soaked streets of Tokyo, rolling the cigar between weathered fingers before bringing it to his lips.
The scar along his knuckle—a reminder of his first case gone wrong—caught the streetlight as smoke curled lazily into the damp night air, mingling with the drizzle that hadn't stopped since evening.
He claimed the cigar helped him think. In truth, it was ritual—a fire to burn away distractions until only the case remained.
And this case was simple. Or so it seemed.
Six bodies. Six different places. Same scars.
Solved stopped in front of a decaying apartment building, its walls stained with years of grime.
He drew a long breath, exhaled smoke, and muttered, "Same scar. Easy case."
But his eyes flickered with that dangerous light—one that meant he wasn't after proof. He was after confession.
He climbed the stairs, his steps slow, deliberate, until he reached apartment 32. He knocked twice.
"Who's there?" A young man's voice answered, uneven.
Solved didn't bother replying. He waited. The door cracked open, revealing sharp eyes behind the shadow of a hood.
"How may I help you—" the man began.
"Got the stuffs?" Solved interrupted, his gaze slicing into him.
The man stiffened. Fear leaked through his pupils.
His lips tightened, his breath shallow. Solved saw it all.
Reading people wasn't just a skill for him—He'd learned to read micro-expressions in the academy, but perfected it in the back alleys of Shibuya, where a missed tell meant a knife in the ribs.
Three years of hunting killers who thought they were smarter than the system had taught him that everyone broke eventually—you just had to find the right pressure point.
"Who the hell are you?" the hooded man snapped, his voice pitched too high.
"Keep calm, Jason," Solved said smoothly, as if the name were nothing more than small talk.
Jason's breath hitched. His hand twitched toward his pocket.
"How—how do you know my name?"
Solved stepped forward, his tall frame filling the doorway, uninvited, brushing past him into the apartment.
He didn't ask permission—he didn't need it.
A detective like him never entered a room. He claimed it.
The place smelled faintly of bleach, though cigarette smoke tried to cover it. A poor disguise.
Shoes lay scattered by the door, one pair darker than the rest—stained despite the scrubbing.
A single jacket hung on the rack, too heavy for the season, as if hiding something inside its lining.
Solved's eyes flicked across everything in seconds, then returned to Jason.
"You don't need the knife," he said calmly. "It's already cleaned.
Stainless steel, eight inches.
Sharp enough to cut, but dull enough to leave scars ragged."
Jason froze, color draining from his face.
"What—what knife? I don't—"
"Save it." Solved exhaled smoke directly toward him. "Six bodies. Same scar, same angle.
You carve with your left, but the right shoulder twitches every time you strike. That's why the cuts weren't straight. That's why I knew it was you."
Jason backed up, sweat beading under his hood. His lips parted, struggling for denial, but Solved pressed on, merciless.
"You've been working hard, Jason. But bleach doesn't erase memory—it only makes the floor shine brighter where the blood used to be."
He tilted his head toward the freshly scrubbed tiles. "Funny how the cleanest spot in this dump is the one where she died."
Jason's knees nearly buckled. His eyes darted around the room, hunting for an escape, a lie, anything.
"You—you don't know what you're saying—"
"Don't I?" Solved stepped closer, his voice dropping low, hypnotic. "I know you keep seeing her face when you close your eyes.
That's why you smoke so much—you think the haze will blur her, make her fade. But she's still there, isn't she?"
Jason's mouth quivered. His hand trembled at his side.
Solved smiled faintly, like a wolf tasting weakness. "You weren't nervous because I came.
You were nervous because you've been waiting for me. The hunter always knows when the hounds are close."
Jason's eyes widened. He staggered back against the wall, shaking his head violently. "No—no, I didn't—"
"You didn't mean to kill her," Solved finished for him. He let silence linger, then leaned in. "But when you started, you couldn't stop. That's the truth, isn't it?"
Jason's breath came ragged. His lips twitched toward confession but locked again.
Solved reached into his coat, not for a weapon, but for another cigar. He lit it slowly, deliberately, his calm a weapon sharper than any blade.
He blew smoke into Jason's face, forcing him to cough, to blink, to stumble in his own lies.
"Here's how it goes," Solved whispered. "You'll deny it. You'll shake, maybe shout. But every second, your eyes tell the truth. Fear. Guilt. Relief."
He tilted his head. "Relief, Jason. Because you wanted to be caught. That's why you didn't run."
Jason's eyes brimmed with tears now, his chest heaving like a drowning man.
Solved struck. "Say it."
Jason's head snapped up, terror flashing. "I—I—"
"Say it," Solved repeated, voice sharp, commanding.
Jason collapsed to his knees. His hood fell back, sweat dripping down his pale face.
"I did it," he whispered. "I killed them. I killed them all."
Solved's smile was cold, merciless. He tapped ash onto the floor. "Case closed."
The sound of distant sirens began to rise outside, growing closer, summoned by the anonymous call Solved had made before he ever arrived.
He always worked two steps ahead.
Jason wept, his confession echoing in the room like broken glass.
Solved didn't comfort him.
He never did.
He only turned to the window, watching the city lights flicker through the rain, smoke curling around his face like a crown.
Turn yourself to the station tomorrow. Your mother will be proud.
His tone was cold and threatening.
As he moved down the stairs he caught a flash of light on the railing.
—It's my time, he thought. He crushed the cigarette beneath his heel and pressed his palm to the rail.
He'd been a danger for as long as he could remember — to everyone, to criminals, even to those who called themselves the law.
If he lived, he'd keep being a threat. If he left, maybe it would stop.
Alfredo and Takashe — wolves in sheep's clothing — waited somewhere beyond the door.
Internal Affairs had been circling for months, ever since the Yamamoto case. Solved's methods got results, but they also got complaints.
Too aggressive, they said. Too willing to bend rules that were already cracked.
He took his first step onto the landing, breathed Tokyo's night air one last time, and then darkness swallowed him.
He lost sensation of limb and bone, but consciousness kept drifting.
Memories detonated like shuttered film: faces, regrets, the static of too many cities. Then light, too bright and clinical.
[WELCOME, DETECTIVE: CASE SOLVED]
"What the—"
[YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED]
[AS A VESSEL FOR THE ENIGMA SEED]
The interface hung in front of him, impossible and thin as glass.
He gazed at it with a hint of amusement.
"Did I somehow take the wrong path to the afterlife?"
But the interface still glowed before his eyes.
[ACCEPT? Y / N]
He stared at the prompt. He had read about systems and isekai in novels, but never imagined standing in one. A smirk ghosted his lips.
"Awesome," he muttered. "An Enigma system. If I'm going to be dragged into this, it might as well be interesting."
The interface pulsed, then confirmed.
[INITIATING —————— COMPLETE ✓] [WELCOME TO VALAMORE...] [MYSTERIES AWAIT YOU]