The gray light seeped through the cracked glass window, signaling the end of one nightmare—and the beginning of another. Caleb stepped out of the maze-like room, his face pale and eyes heavy with thought, but his steps were steady. This wasn't a victory, merely a crossing into a deeper layer of mystery.
In the narrow alley outside the abandoned building, Anna stood waiting—a young detective with a piercing gaze and an unsettling calm. She looked at him as if she had read his thoughts entirely.
"I knew you'd come out," she said in a quiet, sharp voice. "The Director doesn't like ending his games too soon."
Caleb paused, then met her eyes.
"You... know about him?"
Anna gave a bitter smile.
"More than I should. More than I want to."
They sat in an old café, its windows fogged as if time had stopped inside. Sitting with them was Inspector Douglas, a man in his fifties with the wear of years etched into his face—but his eyes still held the hunger of a hunter who never gave up the chase.
Three cups of coffee steamed on the table, the silence around them heavier than any interrogation room. Caleb spoke first, his tone philosophical:
"This isn't just a killer. He doesn't just murder—he builds narratives. He blends literature and madness."
Anna nodded.
"I think he's writing chapters of a story we don't know the ending to. But he's the only one holding the pen."
Douglas cut in.
"Every crime carries a pattern. A symbol. A riddle… It's as if he doesn't want to be caught—he wants to be understood."
Caleb drifted for a moment, recalling the clock, the voices, the feeling of drowning inside a mind not his own.
"He's pulling us into himself. We're not investigating him—we're investigating ourselves through him. Every crime asks something of us. About our nature, our morals, our madness."
Anna looked at him for a long moment before placing a file on the table. Inside was a photo of a victim, and a handwritten note:
"Every victim is a mirror of an unspoken guilt. You won't know who's next—but they do. You'll only save him if he denies himself."
The room went silent, as if the air had thickened.
Douglas spoke:
"This is the Director's style. That's what we call him since the second crime. Every move he makes—it's like directing a stage. And the victim? Always the lead actress in his final act."
Anna pointed to a specific sentence in the note: "You'll only save him if he denies himself."
She murmured, "Is he talking about a narcissist? Someone who sees themselves as the center?"
Caleb thought aloud,
"Or maybe… maybe he's talking about us—the investigators. Maybe we're the target, not the victim."
Just then, the waiter approached quietly, carrying a small brown envelope.
"This arrived for Detective Anna five minutes ago," he said with an eerie calm, then walked away.
Anna opened it quickly. Inside was a polaroid photo—of a young woman, hands tied, sitting on a theater stage, spotlight over her like a star ready for her final performance.
Below the image, a handwritten line:
"The audience awaits... and the curtain rises at midnight. Beware: misread the script, and you join the finale."
Caleb's fists clenched. Douglas cursed. Anna said calmly,
"We have seven hours."
The three exchanged glances—no room for doubt.
Caleb stood.
"If we want to reach her, we need to think like him. Take off our detective hats… and wear the mind of the Director."
Anna gave him a faint smile.
"Well then, Mr. Caleb… are you ready to be my supporting lead?"
He replied firmly:
"I'm not looking for heroics... just the truth—no matter how ugly it is."
Then added, his voice deep and sure:
"But let me say this... this isn't just the Director's game. This is a play—and we're being written into it. Every scene
is trying to reveal who we are, before we ever get to who he is."