Only One Left

Duskvale City – Downtown Precinct | 3:47 A.M.

The sky was blacker than usual. No stars. No moon. Just the sirens, still screaming.

Red and blue lights swirled endlessly in the thick mist, flashing over the crumbling architecture of a city that had already given up. Helicopters roared overhead like mechanical vultures, their spotlights slicing through alleyways soaked in rain—and blood.

On every screen across the city, news anchors wore forced calm, trying to mask the dread tightening their voices.

BREAKING NEWS: “Three more detectives confirmed dead in what officials are now calling The Architect Murders.”

“The death toll now stands at twenty-seven, with the Duskvale Police Department entering emergency lockdown.”

“The killer, known only as The Architect, continues to evade capture. All leads have gone cold.”

The screen flickered. Then cut to live footage.

A line of police cruisers blocked off the alley at Fifth and Mercer. Yellow tape fluttered in the wind like warning flags. Dozens of officers stood in silence, weapons drawn but useless, unsure whether to enter the scene or run from it.

They all stared at the same thing.

A veteran homicide detective was slumped against the brick wall, his badge barely clinging to his chest. Blood streaked from his mouth like a signature. His eyes stared wide into nothingness.

Above him—spray-painted in jagged, perfect strokes:

 “THE SYSTEM BLEEDS.”

Beneath that, marked in scarlet ink like a ritual:

—The Architect

Scene Shift – Duskvale Police HQ, 4:02 A.M.

The precinct should’ve been chaos. Phones ringing off the hook. Detectives shouting across desks. Radios buzzing. Doors slamming. Coffee brewing.

Instead, it was silent.

Desks abandoned. Chairs turned over. Papers scattered. Coffee cups growing cold.

Everyone had either quit, vanished, or died.

Only one office still had its light on.

Elias Kuro sat inside, back straight, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the wall covered in case files.

Photos of every victim lined the corkboard. Threads of red string connected them like arteries in a decaying heart. Notes scribbled in sharp ink. Names crossed out. Circled. Question marks. Maps.

And one photo remained untouched.

The Architect’s calling card.

It wasn’t a face—he never left that behind. Just a gloved hand holding a folded blueprint… and blood splattered across the edge.

Elias exhaled through his nose. He hadn’t slept in days. Didn’t bother shaving. His reflection in the window looked more like a ghost than a man.

He reached for the remote and unmuted the TV.

“—still no suspects. Internal Affairs is calling it the worst security failure in Duskvale’s history. All remaining units are advised to operate in teams or retreat from active fieldwork—”

He clicked it off again.

Elias (inner monologue):

“Retreat?

The city’s already dead. They just haven’t made it official.”

A soft buzz vibrated across his desk.

Incoming call.

Unknown Number.

He stared at the screen for a moment.

Then picked up.

Nothing.

Just breathing.

Then a voice—distorted, unnatural, like it was crawling out of a machine:

???:

“Detective Kuro…

You’ve been quiet.

That’s not like you.”

Elias’s jaw clenched. He said nothing.

???:

“You’re the last one, Elias.

Everyone else failed the test.

So I’m giving you a new one.”

Click.

Silence.

Elias didn’t move for a long moment. Then he stood, calm and deliberate, and reached for his coat. His shoulder holster clicked into place like muscle memory.

On the table, next to a burnt-out cigarette and a cracked badge, lay a photo of all seven of his former partners.

All dead.

He picked it up and tucked it into his coat.

Elias (inner monologue):

“He thinks this is a game.

But I don’t play games.

I end them.”

Scene Shift – Crime Scene, Fifth and Mercer

Rain fell harder now, turning the alley into a crimson river.

Elias walked past the barricades without a word. Officers parted, silent, eyes wide with a mix of awe and fear.

He stepped beneath the police tape, alone.

The corpse was still there. Face familiar. The detective had been his academy roommate once—before time, politics, and fear got in the way.

The words on the wall stared back at him.

 “THE SYSTEM BLEEDS.”

And something new beneath it.

Etched into the brick, not with spray paint—but with a knife.

“Your move, Kuro.”

Elias looked down.

A small metal key sat next to the corpse, half-buried in blood.

He crouched. Picked it up.

On the handle was a number:

“Room 413.”

TO BE CONTINUED...

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