In the middle of an old warehouse standing by the sea, only one hanging lamp still flickered dimly.
Its light swayed gently with the sea breeze seeping through cracks in the wooden walls, casting long shadows across the damp concrete floor.
Beneath that pale glow stood a single iron chair that seemed fused with the ground.
The sound of waves outside mingled with the faint echo of classical music, giving the scene an eerie, almost theatrical tension.
A man in his forties, named Zulmian, sat on the chair.
His body was stiff. A black cloth covered his eyes, and a dirty rag stuffed his mouth, making his breathing harsh and muffled.
He wore nothing but a pair of tattered shorts. His wrists and ankles were tightly bound to the chair — as if the chair itself was made to hold him captive.
He squirmed helplessly, trying to break free, but every attempt was in vain.
Water dripped steadily from the ceiling, marking time in heavy, rhythmic beats.
Zulmian never stopped struggling, his desperation scraping against the silence, but it was useless.
In front of him stood a young man about 175 cm tall.
Beside him was a small surgical table, neatly arranged with medical instruments.
The young man wore a green surgical gown and gloves, a medical mask covering his face, and a cap hiding his hair — only his dark, emotionless eyes were visible.
His name was Hendrik.
Watching Zulmian's futile resistance, Hendrik hummed softly to the rhythm of the classical tune still playing in the background.
Then he stopped. His gloved hand reached for a scalpel from the tray.
He brought it close to Zulmian's abdomen, the metal glinting faintly under the swaying light.
Zulmian's body trembled violently. Cold sweat ran down his forehead, soaking the blindfold over his eyes.
He froze — not because he had accepted his fate, but because he knew one wrong move would make the blade pierce his skin.
Even with his mouth gagged, anyone could tell what he was trying to say.
It was a plea for mercy.
But Hendrik only smiled — his eyes narrowing in amusement.
Even though his mouth was hidden, the expression in his gaze was unmistakable.
With a soft, almost kind tone, he spoke:
"Why are you so scared, sir? Haven't you done similar things to others?
So why act like this now? You're making me feel like the bad guy."
His tone shifted, almost pouting.
Without waiting for a response, Hendrik continued,
"If you stay still, it won't hurt much.
It'll be over quickly. That way, you won't suffer for too long."
Those words alone were enough to freeze Zulmian's blood.
His face turned pale, despair clouding his every breath.
Then Hendrik calmly pressed the scalpel into Zulmian's abdomen.
The blade slid upward, cutting through skin and flesh, until it reached both kidneys.
He placed the bloodied scalpel back on the table, switching tools with surgical precision.
Zulmian's muffled screams filled the air — a grotesque sound between agony and silence.
Hendrik then took a pair of surgical scissors.
He stood before his trembling victim again and spoke gently:
"Ah, I almost forgot… would you like some anesthetic, sir?"
Without waiting for an answer, he continued,
"No, perhaps not. We've come this far already.
If you don't struggle, this will be over quickly — and you'll feel less pain."
Zulmian's tears soaked the blindfold. His face twisted into hopeless horror.
Then Hendrik made another precise cut — removing the left kidney.
He placed it inside a small fish box filled with ice beneath the table.
He repeated the process with the right kidney, then the liver, then finally — the heart.
When it was over, Zulmian no longer moved. He was dead.
Hendrik calmly closed the box, sealing the organs inside.
He took a fisherman's outfit from his bag, changed into it, and replaced his surgical gloves with thick white ones — the kind used by dock workers.
He packed the surgical tools neatly into the bag, placed the tarot deck on the table, and drew one card — The Fool.
He set it carefully beside the lamp.
Then he turned off the classical music, slipped his phone into his pocket, and walked out carrying the box.
The night air was cold.
Above him, the moon shone through drifting clouds, surrounded by scattered stars.
The sea breeze tousled his hair.
Hendrik smiled faintly and whispered,
"What a beautiful night."
---
Four days later, after numerous complaints about a foul stench from the old warehouse, the police finally arrived.
The investigation team — led by Detective Sergeant Jerome — came with two other officers: Alfred and Karem.
They all wore police uniforms, black gloves, and medical masks to counter the nauseating odor.
Jerome, 28, had neatly parted jet-black hair and striking blue eyes — the kind of face that could have belonged to a celebrity rather than a detective.
Alfred, 23, had curly brown hair, warm brown eyes, and tanned skin.
Karem, the third member, had slightly wavy hair and sharp black eyes that suited his calm expression.
Jerome led the way, his steps measured. The others followed five paces behind.
As they entered, the dim light of the hanging lamp greeted them first — still swaying as though time hadn't moved.
Then they saw him.
The man on the chair — his body crawling with maggots and flies, his stomach slit open, his skin pale and blue.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then, realization struck — and all three hurried forward.
Even for seasoned officers, the sight was unbearable.
This was beyond murder. It was a message written in blood.
"Damn psycho…" Alfred muttered under his breath.
Jerome said nothing. His blue eyes swept the room, calm but focused, searching for meaning in the chaos.
Then something caught his eye — a table a few meters to the left of the victim.
He walked toward it. The closer he got, the tenser his expression became.
Noticing their captain freeze, Alfred and Karem moved closer.
"What is it, sir?" Karem asked. "Did you find something?"
There was nothing remarkable on the table — except for a single card lying in the center.
"A card?" Alfred frowned. "Wait… that looks familiar."
After a moment of thought, he snapped his fingers.
"Tarot! That's a tarot card, right?"
Jerome nodded slightly. "Yes. But do you know which one?"
Both Alfred and Karem shook their heads.
"It's The Fool," Jerome said quietly.
"The first card in the Major Arcana. It represents beginnings."
A tense silence followed.
Then Jerome looked up at them. "Do you two think what I'm thinking?"
It took a few seconds, but then their expressions changed — realization dawning in their eyes.
If The Fool represented a beginning… then this was only the start.
Karem swallowed hard. "How many cards are there in the Major Arcana?"
"Twenty-two," Jerome replied grimly. "Which means — twenty-two victims. This man… is only the first."
"Goddamn…" Alfred exhaled. "We've got a real psychopath out there."
The room fell silent again — heavy with dread.
Jerome finally broke it.
"Karem, call headquarters. Tell them to send the forensic team and medical unit immediately."
Thirty minutes later, flashing lights filled the alley outside.
The forensic team, led by Lumian, a 38-year-old man with sharp features and calm demeanor, entered the scene.
Alongside them came Inspector David, 45, his hair graying at the edges, his face weary but alert.
Lumian directed his team to seal off the perimeter with police tape and begin evidence collection.
He personally examined the blood, hair, and fingerprints around the table, then instructed the photographer to capture detailed images of the scene.
Inspector David approached Jerome's team.
"Detective Sergeant, give me a full report."
Jerome nodded and began,
"We responded to a complaint from nearby residents about a foul odor.
At first, we assumed it was an animal carcass, but when we entered, we found the lamp still lit and the victim tied to the chair — his body pale and decomposed, covered in maggots and flies."
He paused, then pointed at the table.
"That table was moved. You can see the drag marks on the floor — it used to be next to the chair."
Lumian, wearing white gloves, stepped closer, examining the card on the table.
He carefully sealed it in an evidence bag.
Jerome continued,
"There was nothing else special on the table — only that card.
A tarot card — The Fool. It symbolizes a beginning.
If this interpretation holds, then this isn't just a murder… it's the start of a serial killing pattern."
Inspector David's expression darkened. "So you're saying there could be more victims?"
Jerome nodded. "Twenty-one more, if we follow the Major Arcana sequence."
David sighed deeply. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."
The distant wail of an ambulance echoed closer.
Two paramedics entered, carrying a stretcher and a black body bag.
They waited as Lumian's team took the final photographs.
"Last shots from the victim's hands," Lumian ordered calmly.
A flash illuminated the corpse one final time.
Then the paramedics moved forward, removing the blindfold and gag, untying the wrists and ankles, and lifting the body with care.
The sound of the zipper closing the body bag filled the room.
Inspector David turned to Jerome.
"Return to headquarters. I'll wait here for the forensic report and contact the victim's family for autopsy consent."
"Yes, sir," Jerome replied firmly, his tone cold and resolute