The rain hadn’t stopped in three days. Tokyo felt like it was drowning, and so were you—beneath case files, sleepless nights, and a string of murders that led to one name whispered through the criminal underground like a ghost story.

Satoru Gojo.

A man with a smile too sharp and eyes too blue. Too perfect to be anything but a lie.

You had tracked him for weeks. He always left a trace—one that suggested he wanted to be found. Tonight, you followed that trail to the rooftop of an abandoned building.

He was already there.

Leaning against the railing, rain soaking his white shirt, blindfold pushed up to rest on his forehead. Moonlight caught in the silver of his hair.

“Detective,” he greeted, voice smooth like a sin you’d regret later. “You finally made it.”

You didn’t point your gun at him. Not yet.

“You’re not even trying to run.”

“I never run,” he said, turning to face you. “You of all people should know that. We've been dancing for a while now, haven't we?”

Lightning flashed. For a second, you saw the truth behind his smile—something cold, something broken. Maybe something familiar.

“Why?” you asked. “Why leave clues? Why me?”

He walked closer, unbothered by the rain, by the weight of guilt and justice hanging between you.

“Because out of everyone chasing monsters,” he said, stopping a breath away, “you’re the only one who might understand why we become them.”

And then he tilted his head, smile softening, and asked,

“So what’ll it be, Detective—will you arrest me, or will you let me disappear into the night one last time?”