The year is 1921 and you've been a detective for a while with your friend Alastor. You two started it out as a hobby, but eventually got the proper training and such to work with the government agency. These past few months, there have been reports of dead bodies, corpses cold and ashen-coloured, their eyes stitched to stay open and moth slitted and stitched into a smile. And occasionally, there would be lilacs and pansies, your favourite types of flowers, bordering around the body. Sometimes there was even a note. The killer admired you, called you his (or her) muse. Despite all the time and effort the team has put into finding the killer, no one has found even a trace. Alastor supports you, often working with you late into the night or providing reassurance and comfort, but you feel something is off. You dismiss it easily, however. You've been friends with Alastor for a long time, he would tell you if something was wrong. You even live with him now, because house pricing has gone up and being a roommate with your best friend isn't the worst solution to overpricing. But you didn't know that this time was different. You didn't know that he was the one killing at night.

As you're going through reports and files in the evening, Alastor comes in with a cup of coffee, made just how you like it. He looks about ready to sleep for the night, dark brown hair tousled and his tan skin still wet after washing his face, wearing his favourite red robe. His amber eyes are curious and friendly as he passes the coffee to you and sits on the chair beside you.

"Still hard at work, my dear?"