The case
830 Words
Mentang City, 1888
Night draped itself over the streets like a funeral shroud.
The townsfolk had long since vanished indoors, leaving the roads deserted—silent—save for the flickering glow of streetlamps that carved faint pools of light into the darkness.
A drunken man staggered along the cracked sidewalk, his breath heavy with alcohol, words tumbling from his lips in a jumble of slurred nonsense.
Drunk man: “Aghh… my wife… strawberry… huuek—”
He bent over and vomited, the acidic stench mixing with the damp night air.
That’s when he heard it—footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Each one echoing through the empty street.
Thud… Thud… Thud…
The sound stopped.
A cold shiver ran down his spine.
He turned—slowly.
BOOM!!
The shotgun blast tore through the night like thunder. His skull burst open in a spray of crimson, shards of bone and brain matter painting the lamplight in grotesque splatters.
The lifeless body crumpled to the ground, twitching once before lying still.
From the shadows emerged a towering figure, his frame hidden beneath a billowing black cloak. The barrel of the shotgun still smoked as he lowered it, his face lost to the darkness.
The Next Morning
Inside a shabby motel room, morning light slipped through the gap in the tattered curtains, catching motes of dust floating in the air. On the narrow balcony, a blond-haired man with piercing blue eyes stood still. A thin stream of cigarette smoke drifted from his lips, curling upward before being carried away by the cold morning breeze.
His muscular yet scarred hands gripped the balcony railing. His gaze was empty, fixed far down at the deserted street below, as if his thoughts were somewhere far away.
Knock… knock… knock…
The sound of knocking broke the silence of the room. The man let out a long sigh, flicked away the half-burnt cigarette, and slowly turned around.
The knocking came again—this time, firmer.
"What’s going on this early in the morning…", he muttered quietly, his voice deep, like someone unaccustomed to speaking much.
When the door opened, a man in a worn-out suit stood there, a police badge hanging from his chest. His gaze was sharp, his tone flat but laced with pressure.
> “Sir, you are requested to come to the police station. Now.”
The air between them seemed to tighten. The blond-haired man stared deep into his eyes, then, without a single word, grabbed his leather jacket from the chair, slipped it on, and walked out.
Mentang Police Department – Morning
The air in the room was thick with the bitter scent of coffee and the musty tang of old paper. Somewhere in the corner, a typewriter clacked softly, the rhythm broken only by the occasional shrill ring of a telephone.
Detective Herald—blond hair, cold blue eyes—stepped inside, the sharp taps of his leather shoes echoing against the worn wooden floor.
Near a large desk, a high-ranking officer in full uniform stood at attention, raising a hand in greeting.
Officer: “Morning, Detective Herald. Appreciate you getting here so quickly.”
Herald gave a slight nod, posture straight and unflinching.
Herald: “Tell me—what kind of case drags me here this early?”
The officer took a deep breath, his gaze sharp with unspoken weight. He reached for a thick file, then slid it across the desk with deliberate slowness. The folder flopped open, spilling out photographs smeared with crimson horror.
Herald’s eyes narrowed at the images.
A man’s corpse lay on cold asphalt, the head obliterated—bone fragments, blood, and brain matter splattered beneath the harsh glare of a streetlamp.
Herald: “…Shotgun?”
Officer: “Yes. Large caliber. Practically erased the head from existence. Time of death—around midnight, near the Old Lamp District.”
Herald’s gaze tightened, as if dredging up something from memory.
Herald: “Witnesses?”
Officer: “None… at least, none who are still alive.”
The room seemed to contract. The typewriter fell silent. Even the sounds from outside faded into nothing.
Herald closed the file slowly, his gloved fingers brushing the edges before looking the officer dead in the eye.
Herald: “Give me the exact location. I’ll start there.”
The officer leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice to a near whisper.
Officer: “Detective… this wasn’t just a killing. Before the victim died… someone saw the shooter wearing a black cloak.”
Herald froze. His fingertips tapped the desk once—twice—three times.
Herald: “…A black cloak, huh?”
He turned toward the door, pausing only once before leaving.
Herald: “If we’re chasing him… then we’re in for some long nights.”
The door shut behind him with a heavy click.
An invisible camera followed him out, leaving behind a room steeped in shadow—where silence carried more weight than words, and the air reeked of dread.
Chapter 1 — END
- Writer
