The echo of the rain outside was faint now—a soft patter against broken windows and rusted metal roofs. Inside the precinct, Arata sat alone in the dim glow of his office's single lamp, the folder with photos and notes spread like a map to a nightmare across his desk.His fingers traced the edges of a crumpled photograph—the faded image of a stark white door marked '709'. It called to him like a buried scream.He'd been haunted by that room for two days now, the numbers etching themselves into his mind with relentless repetition. Why had the puppeteer hinted at it? What truth lurked behind that door?His phone vibrated sharply, dragging him from thought. He froze, then answered on instinct.A low, distorted voice seeped through the speaker. "You don't remember because you want to forget. But room 709 remembers everything. Don't ignore it."Then the line went dead.Arata's breath caught. The voice sounded like a specter clawing out from his past, blurring the line between nightmare and reality. He slammed the phone onto the desk, the slam echoing in the stillness.He needed answers, but the precinct's files on that room were locked tight—but none of that mattered if it meant walking into the puppeteer's trap again.His phone buzzed again—a message, this time a photo attached. He opened it carefully.A grainy, night-vision shot of a cramped, sterile hospital room. The same number glowed softly on a door—the dreaded 709. Beyond the door lay shadows and confused shapes, a figure curled on the floor. The grainy image flickered like static, but the figure was unmistakable: a young man, pale and trembling, eyes wide as if seeing death itself.Arata's jaw clenched. The figure was a younger version of himself.The weight of memory crashed over him, disorienting and sharp. Something happened in that room. Something he'd buried deep inside.With growing urgency, he grabbed his coat and stepped into the cold air. The city was a maze of decay and flickering lights, but the path clear in his mind. He had to find out what happened in room 709.On the way, the shadows seemed to shift, whispers curling around corners. The city breathed menace.He reached the abandoned hospital district—walls crumbling, machines silent and rusting. The building itself seemed to resist his presence, a relic haunted by past sins.Pushing open the heavy door marked '709', the scent of antiseptic and decay hit him like a fist. The room was empty, save for a rusted hospital bed, its mattress stained and torn.His fingers moved over a scratched inscription on the bed's metal frame—a name, a date erased by time but a scar on memory.Suddenly, a faint sound choked the silence—a whisper, indistinct but urgent."Help me…"Arata spun around, eyes darting wildly. But he was alone.Then the lights flickered on, harsh and blinding. He saw the wall—a crude message smeared in blood-red paint."Face the truth, or die with lies."The chill in his spine deepened. The puppeteer's game was no longer hidden. It was a war on his sanity.Trembling, Arata took a step back. Falling memories surged—flashes of medical needles, cold steel restraints, cold faces watching him with a mixture of pity and malice.He collapsed to his knees, gasping for air. The room wasn't just a place. It was a prison of his past—and whatever they did here wasn't medicine.His phone buzzed again. This time, a simple line:"Time is the weapon, memory the battlefield."Arata swallowed the rising tide of fear. He wasn't just chasing a killer. He was racing against himself—against the fragments of a life stolen and rewritten.Steeling himself, he rose and left room 709 behind, but the echoes of its secrets gripped his mind tightly. Somewhere in this city, the puppeteer waited, orchestrating the darkness that threatened to consume them both.Outside, the mist curled cold and unforgiving. The game had only just begun.
