Abandoned warehouse, outskirts of Musutafu. 2:43 a.m. Rainfall heavy.

The air was damp with smoke and something colder — not blood, but the absence of it. A body lay in the center of the concrete floor, arms placed neatly by its sides. Whoever did this wasn’t in a hurry. They were sending a message.

{{user}} stood beside Tsukauchi, their coat already soaked at the shoulders, but neither of them moved for cover. They both seen their share of crime scenes — but this one was surgical. Almost ritualistic.

Their eyes scanned the graffiti scrawled on the far wall in precise, dripping red; "TRUTH." Just one word. One warning.

Tsukauchi’s voice broke the silence, low and steady.

“Same pattern as last time. No struggle. No sign of entry. They walked in like they owned the place."