Rain slicked streets reflected neon advertisements like fractured mirrors. Arata trudged along the sidewalk, his trench coat pulled tightly around him. His eyes scanned the reports once more, notes scribbled in margins, patterns highlighted in red.
The Ribbon Reaper was no longer a rumor. Each new victim, each live broadcast, sharpened his legend. The police had a trail—just not a trail Arata could follow.
"Another one?" Inspector Rao muttered, tossing a folder onto Arata's desk. The thud echoed through the room like a warning.
"Yes," Arata said quietly, flipping it open. A photo of a man sprawled across his office floor. A ribbon tied neatly on his wrist. Crime: trafficking young girls.
Arata's stomach twisted. He didn't recognize the body, but the method…
It was him. It felt like him.
Not in reality, of course—but the eerie familiarity gnawed at the edges of his mind.
Meanwhile, Lucian sat on his apartment rooftop, watching the city below. The rain had stopped, leaving wet streets shimmering under the streetlights. His fingers tapped idly on the railing.
Whispers again. Kane, sharp and commanding: "They're getting closer. Your mask won't hold forever."
Arata, distant yet stern: "Control yourself. The law is fragile. Don't break it."
Lucian closed his eyes, shaking his head. "Leave me alone," he muttered, his playful grin gone. The childish mask felt like it was melting under pressure.
The city below carried the weight of Kane's deeds. Arata's investigation would soon intersect with the criminal network Kane had infiltrated. And Lucian—the fool, the lover—was the thread connecting them, oblivious to just how dangerous his absence of awareness had become.
At the precinct, Arata poured over maps and records. Street cameras, bank transactions, even online chatter—he was trying to connect dots the public hadn't even noticed.
"Sir, we have surveillance footage," an officer said, handing over a small screen.
Arata's eyes narrowed. A man entered a building, hooded, almost invisible. The movement was fluid, almost too precise. His hand lingered near a laptop as if commanding the world around him.
Arata leaned closer. Something in the posture, the rhythm… it was hauntingly familiar.
"Mark it for investigation," he said softly. "I want every camera within a two-block radius. Check everyone entering and leaving."
The officer nodded, but Arata's mind was already spinning.
He couldn't place why, but the man on the screen wasn't just a criminal. There was a strange precision, an intelligence, something that made Arata's chest tighten with unease.
Outside, the city moved obliviously. People argued over petty crimes, taxi drivers cursed at traffic, neon lights reflected in puddles like shattered gems. Yet whispers of the Ribbon Reaper had begun to circulate in hushed tones—stories of justice, vengeance, and death tied with neat ribbons.
Some citizens were terrified, others inspired. Even without seeing him, everyone felt his presence.
And while Arata hunted for clues, Kane moved in shadows, Lucian laughed on rooftops and in cafés, and the three souls of one man spun closer together, threads unseen but impossible to ignore.
That night, Lucian passed the precinct by chance. He paused, peering through the rain-smeared window.
Inside, Arata's eyes were fixed on monitors. He didn't see Lucian. He didn't see the man who had been Kane hours ago—or who might be Kane again tomorrow.
Lucian shivered, suddenly aware of the invisible tether connecting all three lives. And for the first time, he understood something terrifying:
The masks weren't separate. They were all fractures of one man, and if one fell too hard, they could all shatter.