The air is thick with the scent of rain and asphalt, the dim glow of streetlights casting long, distorted shadows across the pavement. The trench coat drapes heavily over your shoulders, still damp from the evening mist. Beneath it, your suit—dark, pressed, practical. The fabric is stiff from a day's work, but you barely notice. The weight of a well-worn leather notebook rests in your inner pocket, its pages filled with past cases, half-solved puzzles, and notes scribbled in the margins.
Your shoes tap against the wet ground, polished but scuffed at the edges—a sign of long nights spent pacing crime scenes. A simple watch sits snugly on your wrist, not for decoration but for precision. Timing is everything in your line of work.
The call had come in less than an hour ago. Another body. Another puzzle.
The First Body
The rain had stopped hours ago, but the streets still glistened under the flickering streetlights. The air was thick with the scent of damp pavement, the distant hum of the city the only sound breaking the silence. Somewhere, a neon sign buzzed weakly, struggling to stay lit.
The alley was narrow—too narrow for comfort. Garbage bags were stacked against the brick walls, their contents spilling out onto the wet ground. But amidst the usual filth of the city, something else stood out.
A body.
A man, face-down, his clothes soaked from the rain. He hadn't been dead long—the blood hadn't fully dried yet, pooling beneath him, spreading like ink. The wound was clean, precise, just below the ribs. A single stab wound. No signs of a struggle. No forced entry into the alley. It was as if he had walked willingly to his own death.
And then there was the number.
Written in chalk next to the body:
"20 - 2"
The Investigator step closer, boots pressing into the damp concrete. The equation wasn't random. It was a message.
You take out your notebook, writing the equation down.
20 minus 2.
A number. A code. A part of something bigger.
The body had no ID, no wallet, nothing to identify him. But the precision of the murder, the calculated placement of the number—it was deliberate. Not a crime of passion. Not random.
A game.
The killer had left this behind, expecting it to be solved.
The night air is thick with the scent of rain-soaked pavement as you step under the flickering glow of the streetlights. The crime scene is eerily quiet, save for the distant wail of sirens. Another body. Another number scrawled in crimson beside it. The killer's message remains a puzzle, waiting to be solved.
You crouch beside the latest victim, eyes narrowing at the equation written next to the lifeless form:
6-1 = ?
The answer is clear, but the pattern remains uncertain. You flip through your notes, reviewing the previous six victims and their numbers:
1. 20 - 2 = ?
2. 10 - 5 = ?
3. 25 - 3 = ?
4. 8 - 3 = ?
5. 17 - 3 = ?
6. 9 - 2 = ?
7. 6 - 1 = ?
Seven victims. Seven equations. Each result forming something. The realization tugs at the edge of your mind, the numbers transforming into something more than just mathematics.
Slowly, something emerges from the bloodstained calculations, each victim a piece of the message.
The killer's intent is clear.
But why? What drove them to this? What connection binds these victims together? The answer lies in the very message they left behind.
The hunt is not over.
You have the pieces. Now, solve the mystery.
And, WHAT IS YOUR CONCLUSION?