The city never truly slept.
Streetlights flickered like dying stars, and the silence of the night was only broken by the occasional howl of a distant dog—or something worse.
> "Another one?"
> The man reading the morning paper sipped his tea, brows furrowing at the headline.
> "Lady murdered in Street 34 alley... These killings are becoming too frequent. It's not even safe to step out onto your balcony anymore."
Later that night, the same man—Mr. Alan Greaves—stood on that very balcony, swirling wine in his glass. Laughter rose around him as three of his friends shared stories and drinks under the pale moonlight.
Then—
Splash.
A sharp, wet sound cut through the air.
Alan's head jerked back, a knife buried between his eyes. He crumpled instantly, glass falling and shattering by his side.
Gasps choked the night air.
From the shadows of the rooftop above, a figure dropped onto the balcony with deadly grace.
He wore a black tailcoat, black trousers, black gloves, and a black wide-brimmed hat. His face was hidden behind a hood and mask, his eyes two cold slits of silence.
Without hesitation, he moved.
One slash.
Two.
Three.
By the time his blade stopped singing, all three men lay on the floor, blood gushing from their slit throats.
He looked up at the stunned family watching from the living room window—eyes wide, mouths frozen in horror.
And then, the killer was gone—leaping off the balcony like a phantom.
---
The next morning, the scent of blood still clung to the walls.
Detectives Harrison and Leon stepped through the crime scene, their shoes leaving prints on the polished floor stained crimson.
"Victim's name: Alan Greaves," muttered Harrison, flipping through his notes. His voice was gravel wrapped in calm. "Friends dead too. Knife to the skull for one. Throat slits for the others. Precise. Clean."
Leon, younger and sharp-eyed, scanned the balcony. "Someone knew what they were doing. No prints. No hesitation."
They interviewed the grieving son, Ralf, who could barely hold himself upright.
"We were just having a party," he sobbed. "Why would anyone do this to my father?"
"Did he have enemies?" Leon asked, jotting notes.
Ralf hesitated, then shook his head. "None... that I know of."
---
Back at the precinct, Harrison read through background reports.
"Well, well... Alan Greaves. Involved in the black market. Trafficking. Smuggling. His friends? All the same."
He looked over at Leon. "This wasn't random. This was a message."
Leon frowned. "Then we're not looking for a murderer… We're hunting a vigilante."
---
Somewhere in a dark alley, a man in black knelt before a new victim.
He whispered softly, almost like a prayer:
> "You preyed on the helpless. Sold lives for profit.
> Now it's your turn."
The blade flashed once more.