The gas lamps flickered weakly, casting long shadows across the narrow London street. Behind the curtains of a small rented flat, a crime scene lay in silence.
On the wooden floor, a young man's body rested awkwardly. His face was pale, his lips drained of color. Two small puncture marks marred the side of his neck, crimson trails leading down like a signature left behind by something not quite human.
Inspector Doyle crouched beside the corpse, his thick mustache twitching as he muttered.
"Neck wounds… but no blood left in the body. A butcher's work? Or something worse."
Sergeant Hughes adjusted his cap, unease plain in his voice.
"Sir, that makes the fourth body this month. Always the same—no blood, no witnesses. The papers are already calling it The Midnight Killer."
Constable Reed shifted on his feet, glancing at the drawn curtains as though expecting something to peer back.
"Do you think it's… human?" he asked, hesitant.
The inspector didn't answer.
The silence deepened, broken only by the ticking of a pocket watch on the dead man's desk. Then, the door creaked open.
A figure stepped inside. Tall, lean, dressed in a long black coat that swayed with each measured stride. A polished top hat sat upon his head, its brim shadowing sharp, calculating eyes.
"Forgive the intrusion," the stranger said, voice calm yet carrying an authority that made all three officers stiffen. He removed his gloves with deliberate care before producing a silver-cased pocket watch. "I heard whispers of your… peculiar case."
Inspector Doyle scowled.
"And who, exactly, might you be?"
The man offered a faint smile, though it didn't reach his eyes.
"Sherlock. A detective by trade. You'll find my methods… unconventional. But in matters such as these, the usual reasoning won't suffice."
He knelt by the corpse, fingertips hovering just above the puncture wounds. His gaze sharpened, as though he were piecing together a puzzle no one else could see.
"Interesting," he murmured. "No tearing of flesh, no hesitation. Clean… deliberate. Whatever did this was neither animal nor man."
The officers exchanged uneasy glances. A chill lingered in the air, and for the first time that night, the gas lamps seemed to burn weaker, as though recoiling from something unseen.
Sherlock stood, eyes narrowing toward the curtained window.
"The killer is no ordinary criminal," he whispered. "London is being hunted… and if we do not act swiftly, this will be only the beginning."
The clock struck midnight.
And somewhere beyond the foggy streets, something stirred.