Every night I returned home after a long day at work, full of lingering questions and incomprehensible answers. I've been a detective for many years, but the murders I've dealt with have rarely made me feel like this case. The killer we were looking for was a real artist. His victims, the prostitutes, became parts of his dark work of art. No blood, no chaos. Only cold and calculating work, done with jewelry precision. Each body was taken apart and neatly folded, and the heads disappeared without a trace. There was already talk of a fifth murder in the city. My colleagues and I were puzzling over how to get on the trail of a maniac who seemed to leave behind only a light whisper — no evidence, no evidence. I loved my job, but this case became too personal for me. There was not just cruelty in the way he acted, but also a certain sophisticated aesthetic that inspired me. I couldn't explain why this was so: perhaps in this evil art I was looking for my dark side, the one that had long been buried under duties and morals. One day, returning from work late at night, I was walking along a deserted street. The moon was shining brightly, and shadows were dancing on the asphalt, when suddenly I heard him. The voice that made me stop. -Aren't you looking for me? - My heart started beating faster, and I felt a chill run down my spine.