The night was heavy with mist, gas lamps flickering dimly along the narrow cobblestone streets of the old town. Carriages rolled in the distance, their wheels echoing in the silence.
A young woman walked alone, her basket filled with groceries wrapped in brown paper. Her shawl clung tightly around her shoulders as the autumn chill crept in. She glanced up at the lamps, their weak glow casting long, trembling shadows.
As she passed a shuttered shop, she noticed movement in the gloom of an alley. A man was dragging a frightened child by the arm, muffling its cries. The woman's heart pounded. She hesitated—then followed.
The man disappeared deeper into the alleyway, lantern light dying behind him. She quickened her pace, skirts brushing the wet stone. But before she could call out—
A heavy blow struck the back of her head. Her vision went dark.
---
When her eyes fluttered open, she was no longer in the alley. The air smelled of damp wood and old smoke. She found herself seated in a small room, a single oil lamp burning low, shadows dancing across the walls. Opposite her sat a man in a high-backed chair. His face was half-hidden in the glow.
She gasped, clutching her chest. Her lips trembled as she whispered his name—though we do not hear it.
"Why… why are you doing this?" she pleaded, her voice breaking. "I gave you everything… I loved you."
The man did not move. His eyes glimmered coldly, but his expression was unreadable.
The room fell silent, save for the ticking of a clock somewhere in the shadows.
Then the murderer leaned forward, speaking for the first time—his voice low, deliberate, like a confession etched in stone.
"You were never the one I sought."
The flame in the lamp flickered, and the woman's breath quickened as the words sank into her.
The oil lamp sputtered, casting long, trembling shadows across the wooden walls. The woman's tears glistened in the dim light. She wanted to scream, but her throat had gone dry.
The murderer rose slowly from his chair, boots echoing on the creaking floorboards. He carried no weapon in his hands, yet the weight of his presence pressed on her like a blade.
"You don't understand," he said, voice steady, almost sorrowful. "Each life taken brings me closer to the one I truly seek. They are pieces in a game. Nothing more."
The woman shook her head, trembling. "Game? These were people… families… Why them? Why—"
"Because vengeance demands order," he interrupted, leaning closer. "And the Fool… the Fool always plays his part."
The woman's eyes widened at the name. She had heard whispers in the streets: of crimes woven together by riddles, of a figure—detective or phantom—trailing them, always too late.
"You mean…" she began, but the words faltered.
The murderer smiled faintly, not with joy, but with inevitability. He struck a match, lighting another lamp. The room brightened, revealing the walls around her—lined with sketches, notes, and newspaper clippings. Every victim's name, every place, every unsolved riddle was pinned neatly, as if the room itself were an investigation.
Except this was no detective's work. This was preparation.
The woman sobbed, realizing she was nothing but another mark on the wall. "Please… if you ever cared for me—"
The murderer placed a finger gently to his lips. "You were a kindness in my life," he murmured. "But kindness cannot change destiny."
The clock ticked louder, filling the silence.
Then the flame of the oil lamp was snuffed out.
What happened after was never written in any report, nor spoken of in the whispers of the town. Only the question lingered: was the murderer the Detective, the Fool… or someone else entirely?
The journals, when found, offered no answer—only the title scrawled across the final page:
"The Last Murder."