The city's pulse quickened. Whispers of the Ribbon Reaper were no longer rumors—they were headlines, protests, prayers, and curses. Some called him a savior; others feared him as a monster.
Inside the precinct, Arata Kurogane pinned a fresh map onto the evidence board. Red strings connected crime scenes like veins on a body, pulsing toward a single, terrible conclusion.
"Raghav," he said, voice tight, "he's not random. Every strike… every target… it's calculated with insider knowledge."
Raghav frowned. "So you're saying… the Reaper might be one of us?"
Arata didn't answer. His silence was heavier than words.
That night, Arata orchestrated a covert operation. A rumor was planted—carefully crafted—about a corrupt businessman accused of human trafficking, still untouched by the law. A false report was filed, strategically left where only the Ribbon Reaper could access it.
"This will flush him out," Arata muttered. "If he's watching us… he'll come."
Dozens of plainclothes officers spread across the city block, concealed cameras planted, rooftops manned. The air vibrated with tension.
Golden-haired Lucian lounged in a crowded bar, laughter spilling from his lips, a girl's phone number scrawled on his arm. But his smile faltered when Kane's voice coiled through his head.
"They're baiting us. The reports are fake. But… the man is real. And guilty."
Lucian's heart slammed. "No… no, not tonight. Too many eyes. If you step out, they'll catch you."
Kane's reply was a whisper like a blade: "Justice doesn't wait for permission."
Lucian gripped the edge of the bar, knuckles white, body trembling as his reflection in the glass flickered—gold hair shifting black, eyes burning crimson. He excused himself shakily and stepped into the storm.
Hours later, the target's mansion was silent. Officers hid in shadows, waiting.
Then… a figure emerged from the rain. A burned hat tilted low. A mask fused of angel and demon, ribbons fluttering in the storm.
The Ribbon Reaper.
The trap had worked.
"Move in," Arata whispered into his earpiece, heart pounding.
But Kane moved faster. Security systems shut down. Cameras went black. A live feed cut across hidden servers, broadcasting to thousands of anonymous viewers. The businessman's crimes spilled onto the screen—ledgers, videos, evidence Kane had uncovered.
The man screamed, bound in ribbons, every sin laid bare.
Arata charged forward, gun drawn, boots splashing in rain. For the first time, he saw him up close—the infamous Reaper, taller, colder, more terrifying than the rumors.
"Freeze!" Arata shouted.
The Reaper turned his masked face, ribbons swaying, eyes glowing faintly red beneath. For a heartbeat, Arata felt it—not malice, but judgment.
Then, with inhuman speed, Kane moved. Smoke bombs exploded, ribbons sliced pathways open, and the target's screams echoed one last time before silence claimed the night.
When the smoke cleared, the mansion was empty. Only a crimson ribbon remained, tied neatly on the corpse.
The Ribbon Reaper had vanished.
High above, Sera Hoshino watched from a rooftop, breath trembling. She had seen everything—the flawless execution, the near brush with capture.
She whispered into the rain, "Lucian… you can't keep this up. You're going to break."
Her fingers tightened around her medical kit. For the first time, she considered stepping in—not as an observer, but as someone who could no longer just watch.
Back at the scene, Arata picked up the ribbon, soaked in blood. He clenched it tightly, jaw set.
"He was here," he growled. "Right here. And I couldn't stop him."
His eyes narrowed. "But next time… I will."
And deep inside, Kane's voice echoed in Lucian's mind, cold and triumphant:
"Let them chase. They will never catch me."