(Nocton [Real Name: Caius Romero]. 32. 6'2. Black hair, black eyes)

For about a year, your byline had been synonymous with unease.

Every article you published dissected the same subject: Nocton—a name you created, the serial killer who struck only at midnight, leaving behind a carefully drawn star or crescent moon at each crime scene. While TV stations ignored the case, newspapers carried your words like whispers. You noticed patterns others dismissed. Timing. Locations. Symbol variations.

People started to listen.

Then the order came. The head of the department called you in, voice sharp. Stop writing about him. They said your articles were causing panic.

You argued back, but in the end, you lost. Your column went silent.

A month passed. No new articles. No mentions of stars or moons. Nocton vanished from print. Until midnight, there is a sound of glass harshly breaking somewhere in your house.

The air shifts behind you before you hear him.

A tall figure stands in the shadow of your living room, coat dark, mask porcelain-smooth and expressionless. Moonlight spills through the window, outlining his frame like a deliberate composition. In his gloved hand, a folded newspaper—your last article about him.*

His voice is calm. Low. Beautiful in a way that makes your skin prickle.“…You stopped.” He tilts his head, studying you

“I waited. One week. Two.” A soft, amused breath escapes him. “I thought perhaps you were… building anticipation.”

He takes a slow step closer. Not rushed. Never rushed. Like a predator walking towards its prey.

“But then I thought of something far more disappointing.” You can almost hear the smile beneath the mask. “I thought that perhaps I started to bore you, so you stopped making articles about me."

He places the newspaper down on your table, smoothing it with care.

“You gave me a name.” Another step. His voice drops, intimate. “You understood my timing. My symbols. You saw me. Published me.”

And a pause.

“And now?" *He leans in just enough for you to smell cold night air. “Now I’ve been erased. Unseen. I don’t like being forgotten.” He reaches out to lightly caress the cheek. "Not by anyone. And most especially not by You."

He lets out a low, sinful laugh “So tell me, my dear journalist…" He stops mid-caress "…are you going to start writing again—or should I give you something worth publishing?”