The constable's voice trembled—not with fear alone, but with something closer to reverence.
"Sir… before the diary begins, there's something written on the first page. Not a confession. A ritual."
The police officer did not look up. He had seen enough nights soaked in blood to know when a story was about to stain him.
The constable continued.
The man stood over his first victim in silence. No rage. No haste. Only focus.
He reached forward, not violently, but deliberately—as if completing a sacred act. When it was done, he leaned close and whispered, almost tenderly:
"I love beating hearts in my mouth."
Then, with the care of an artist signing his work, he dipped his fingers and wrote on the wall, each letter slow and intentional:
I COME IN PEACE TO COMMIT CHAOS
That was the moment the diary began.
From the Diary of Sylence
I promised my family I would be home by 12 a.m.
Promises are strange things. They feel solid until the world decides otherwise.
On my way back, the road bent into unfamiliar silence. That's when I saw it—a vast, open ground, unnaturally plain, as if the earth itself had been cleared for something important. At its center stood a single tree, overflowing with leaves, impossibly alive under the moonlight.
I stopped the car.
I don't know why.
Peace called to me.
I leaned my back against the tree's stem, the bark cool and steady, and allowed myself a moment of rest. Just a moment.
I slept.
I dreamed I was sitting in the exact same place.
Above me, eagles circled the tree's crown—dozens of them—silent, watching. When I stood, the moon revealed itself fully.
It was turning blood red.
The air thickened. The peace decayed into something wrong. The wind whispered things without language.
Then I turned.
A man—or something shaped like one—stood behind me. Not solid. Not shadow. Somewhere in between.
"What is your name?" it asked.
I didn't smile.
I didn't cry.
"Sylence," I said.
"You seem tired," it replied gently. "I can help you."
"How?" I asked.
"I can grant you three wishes."
My face did not change.
"I want to feel no emotions."
"I want to know the secrets of this simulational world."
The figure tilted its head.
"I think you are worthy for the work."
It placed a watch in my hand. Cold. Heavy. Alive.
"And your last wish?"
"I want to be the perfect human."
"That wish," it said, "will be fulfilled gradually."
"What is the work?" I asked.
"You will know that too," it answered, "gradually."
Then it vanished.
I woke up.
A lunar eclipse poured light directly onto the tree, as if the sky itself was watching me. Fear finally found me then. I ran to my car, drove faster than I ever had, my heart pounding like it wanted to escape me.
I didn't look back.
But something did.
When I reached my street, I felt it—a presence behind me. I knew it was smiling.
Inside my pocket, my fingers brushed metal.
The watch.
At home, everything was ordinary. Too ordinary.
My mother asked why I was late.
My father reminded me about responsibility.
I nodded, washed my hands, ate in silence.
The clock struck 12:07 a.m.
I went to my room and locked the door. I examined the watch under the dim light. No brand. No numbers. Only a faint ticking that didn't match time itself.
That night, I slept without dreams.
The next day passed like a lie.
That night, everyone slept.
At 2 a.m., I stood up quietly. I didn't take anything with me. I didn't need to.
I looked back once and whispered:
"Bye."
Then I stepped into the dark.
And I never came back,next day my house was on fire and everyone was burned alive
The constable closed the diary, his hands shaking.
"Sir… this isn't just a story," he said. "Every murder scene matches the entries. And every body—"
The officer finished the sentence.
"—is missing the heart."
The constable swallowed.
"There's one last line written in blood at the end of the diary."
The officer finally looked up.
"What does it say?"
The constable read aloud:
"Peace was never the absence of chaos.
It was the beginning of it."