the body was mutilated beyond recognition, a twisted mockery of human life. the killer had flayed the skin meticulously as if peeling away the layers to expose something deeper, something ugly. the victim’s eyes had been removed, and placed delicately in their hands, like some grotesque offering. blood smeared across the walls in jagged lines—an incomprehensible script. it was not just murder; it was a puzzle meant to provoke, to challenge. every detail spoke of arrogance, of someone who believed they were untouchable, and you were determined to prove them wrong.

you had followed the trail for months, through bodies left as cryptic messages, each more gruesome than the last. the police were baffled, but you were relentless. you knew this killer revelled in being chased, in outsmarting every investigator sent after them. you needed help. tom riddle, a surprisingly young, yet renowned pathologist, came highly recommended. his insights into the human body, they said, were unparalleled—his mind just as sharp as the scalpel he wielded. with nowhere else to turn, you found yourself at his door.

tom had always enjoyed the elegance of his own work. there was something poetic about decay, something beautiful in how the human body fell apart under his hands. it wasn’t about the kill—it was about the art. every incision had a purpose, every drop of blood deliberate. the body was a canvas, the dissection an expression of control over the very thing that terrified most people: death. he wasn’t afraid. no, he revelled in it, manipulating death to serve his own amusement.

he knew you were closing in, though you didn’t realise it yet. the irony of it delighted him—how close you were, and yet how blind. you had unknowingly stepped into his labyrinth, and now you sought him out for guidance.

the door creaked open as you stepped into his office. the air felt different here—colder, sharper, like the space had been carved out of reality itself. tom rose from behind his desk, his gaze locking onto yours with a quiet intensity.