"You can stop here."
"Alright," the carriage driver replied gruffly, pulling over. Alfred Debyan stepped out. He was in his twenties, with short gray hair. His right eye was pitch black like a crow's, while his left was a strange bluish color, marked with unusual patterns. Quietly, Alfred reached into his black coat, pulled out his brown wallet with a gloved hand, and handed the driver a gold coin.
"Keep the change," he said, adjusting his coat to match his neatly pressed black pants. The afternoon street buzzed with life—men heading to or coming back from work, women attending parties and banquets, families enjoying their day out.
It was peaceful—exactly the kind of peace Alfred wanted to protect from the hands of a serial killer.
He pulled a letter from his pocket and read it again:
—Dear Mr. Alfred, the Santia Police Department (19 Sylvester Street) requests your help with a case involving a serial killer disturbing the peace in the city. With sincere thanks, Diana.
He folded the letter, slid it back into the envelope, and tucked it away as he walked with two fellow officers from his home station.
To his right was Javier Fakhan, a tall, thin guy with green hair and bluish eyes. He wore the department's gray and black uniform. Javier had worked with Alfred for five years. He loved classic literature and watching plays. He thought this case sounded dumb but couldn't turn down working with his partner.
To Alfred's left walked Lily, a policewoman with short reddish-pink hair and a soft, round face. She'd joined the team three years after Javier. She didn't like gory cases—especially not serial murders—but unfortunately, she was really good at handling them.
The three of them moved through the streets, a cool breeze brushing their faces and rustling the leaves. Alfred took a deep breath, savoring the mix of fresh air and the faint scent of a nearby fountain. Street vendors shouted their prices in the background.
"Buy a whole box for five coins!"
"T-shirts and trousers for just one bronze coin!"
Alfred had a habit of soaking in the sights and sounds of a new place before diving into work. It helped clear his mind.
He looked up. The sky was scattered with white clouds, with rays of sunlight cutting through them.
After a while, they reached a faint blue building with a silver police emblem on the front. Officers were patrolling the area, some getting into vehicles to head out on duty.
They entered the station at 19 Sylvester Street and made their way to the sheriff's office. Alfred knocked lightly on the door.
Knock knock knock.
"Come in," came a woman's voice from inside.
They stepped in. Behind the desk sat Sheriff Divya, a woman with black hair and gray eyes wearing a long dark brown coat. The tired, serious look on her face told Alfred she'd dealt with a lot of ugly cases.
"Mr. Alfred," she greeted, standing and nodding respectfully. She shook hands with all three of them.
"Please, have a seat," she said calmly.
After sitting down, Alfred got straight to the point. "So, what's going on with this serial murder case?"
Divya sighed, rubbing her brow. "I've tried everything to gather solid evidence... but we've got nothing. We tracked down a few suspects, but... they were already dead when we found them. Murdered at the scene."
Alfred frowned. "Why were the suspects killed? Do you think they were involved?"
"Maybe... but we can't ask the dead," Divya said, shaking her head slowly. "It's crazy. Even if the killer committed suicide, it doesn't explain why another one pops up right after doing the exact same thing. None of it makes sense!"
A quiet officer entered, handed them each a cup of coffee, then left without a word, his face tight with stress.
'I hate Sissire coffee…' Alfred thought, setting his cup aside without touching it.
"When did all this start?" he asked. He hadn't expected them to contact him so soon into the case.
"It began last month. So far, 83 people are dead. Eighty-three! It's insane. What's even weirder is that in every case, there's always someone among the victims who killed themselves. Could the killer really be killing himself each time? Or are we dealing with a whole organization of lunatics wiping out evidence by dying?"
"Eighty-three?" Javier's jaw dropped.
"I'm guessing they didn't kill just one person each time?" Alfred pressed.
"Right. Sometimes two people. Sometimes whole groups—ten or more at once. But there's always one consistent thing: a yellow tag left on one of the bodies. The person who left the tag is always the one found dead with it."
"A yellow tag? Can I see it?" Alfred asked.
"We've got one in evidence." Divya opened a drawer and pulled out a black sheet of paper with glowing yellow symbols on it. She handed it to Alfred.
He studied the strange markings, but he couldn't make sense of them. The writing was nothing he recognized.
'Could they be like me... using an artifact?'
"We haven't been able to translate it. It doesn't match any language we know. It could just be nonsense the killer left to throw us off," Divya said.
"Or maybe he's just wasting time," Alfred replied, but his tone was tense.
'Or maybe this is something serious. Diana, I should have quit my job when I had the chance…' he thought darkly.
They talked more, but eventually, fatigue hit. They decided to continue the investigation the next day.
"Sorry we don't have space to host you here," Divya said, "but we booked you a hotel nearby. It's close to the station, so it should be fine."
"Good," Alfred nodded. His strange blue eye faded, losing its glow like a light switching off.
The three walked to the nearby yellow-colored hotel and checked into separate rooms.
That night, Alfred was woken by a loud knock at the door.
Knock knock.
"What is it?" he asked, opening the door to see Javier, who looked serious.
"I heard a scream from outside. Could it be him?"
"Wake Lily. I'll go ahead."
Alfred quickly got dressed and stepped outside. The night was cold and foggy. The blue moonlight barely made it through the thick mist.
His black eye flickered—and in the fog, a red thread appeared, only visible to him.
'There!'
He ran through the mist, following the glowing red line through the streets until it turned sharply into an alley.
As he turned the corner, the scene made him freeze.
Two bodies lay on the ground. One was a woman whose stomach had been torn open, her organs spilled out. The other was a young girl—dead, a knife still buried in her own heart.