"What is this boredom? Is there truly no sinner who has committed a crime?"
Renoir, one of the most terrifying Detectives in his field. There had never been a case he failed to solve. Killing a sinner was as casual to him as lighting a cigarette. In his eyes, justice existed only through death.
He lounged back in his chair, boots resting on the desk, smoking his cigar in absolute calm. He exhaled slowly and spoke in a cold, lifeless tone:
"The weather is rainy today… A crime is bound to occur. My instincts never lie; every sin is tied to rain."
He walked toward the window behind him and stared into the gloomy atmosphere, watching raindrops slam violently against the glass.
Lightning tore through the sky, its brilliance reflected in the Detective's gray eyes. As he raised the cigar to his lips, the telephone on the desk rang sharply. A strange, deeply unsettling smile formed on his lips.
He lifted the receiver and pressed it to his ear without saying a word. The caller spoke first:
"Detective Renoir?!"
"Yes. Who is this?"
"Sir… this is the Louisiana Police. We've received a report of an entire family being murdered in the west of the city."
Renoir stiffened and asked sharply:
"You mean the Harvard family?!"
"Yes, sir. The entire family has been killed. No survivors."
Renoir placed two fingers on his chin, murmuring inwardly:
The Harvards… the most prominent family in the Kingdom of Crown, slaughtered this easily? Truly horrifying…
"Thirty minutes. I'll be there."
"Understood. We'll be waiting."
Renoir took his black coat from the wardrobe along with a black umbrella. He left his mansion and headed toward the western district of Louisiana City in his car.
Rain poured heavily. The streets were nearly deserted, the hour edging toward midnight. As he drove, his thoughts remained fixated on the Harvards' massacre, unease tightening his chest.
He drove with his right hand, resting the other against his cheek.
"Why do I feel uneasy? Something about this case feels wrong… A noble family with direct ties to the king, murdered like this?"
"Too many questions circle my mind, and none offer a proper answer…"
Speeding through the road, Renoir suddenly noticed a shadow standing in the middle of the path. At first, he dismissed it as a trick of light cast by the streetlamps. He ignored it—until the shadow appeared again, this time reflected in the rearview mirror in a horrifying way.
Renoir lost control. The car nearly veered off the mountain road, but he managed to regain balance. He pulled over abruptly and looked behind him, trembling.
"What was that just now?! Am I imagining things?"
"It was a shadow… faceless… staring at me with rage."
He wiped his forehead, eyes shut tight, and spoke in a forced calm:
"It must be stress… nothing more."
He resumed driving, heading toward the Harvards' residence—or rather, their palace.
After another thirty minutes, he arrived at the massive iron gate. Beyond it stretched an enormous garden, wrapped in a grotesque Gothic atmosphere.
Police officers were scattered throughout the grounds. Two stood guard at the gate, armed with swords and firearms, preventing civilians from entering.
As Renoir stepped forward, both guards crossed their swords at his neck. He slowly lowered his gaze to the blades, then lifted his gray eyes toward them, fury coiling inside him.
They froze.
Detective Renoir.
Mistaking him for a civilian or an intruder, they immediately withdrew their weapons and stood straight in respect. Renoir offered no response and passed through the gate without a word.
He walked through the vast garden, watching officers meticulously search every corner.
This is how our world works, he muttered to himself. The higher your status, the greater the attention you receive…
He reached the palace's main entrance and pushed the door open. His eyes scanned the interior—until he saw them.
Five bodies, arranged neatly at the center of the hall, flanked by two staircases on either side.
They were covered with pristine white cloths, untouched by even a single drop of blood.
Shock crept into his expression.
A police officer approached and saluted him.
"Detective Renoir, sir. You arrived just in time."
Renoir looked at him and offered a hollow smile.
"Do you have any details? Any information or evidence that could lead us to the killer?"
The officer pointed toward the central body.
"The terrifying thing about this case, sir… is that there is no evidence. Only a blank white sheet of paper placed on that body."
Renoir stared at the corpse, then approached and crouched down. He reached out and picked up the paper.
Crimson words were etched upon it.
The message read:
"Everyone is a witness, but you are the only observer. And you are the seer."
Renoir frowned and handed the paper to the officer.
"What do you mean there are no words? Look at the paper."
The officer examined it, confusion flickering in his eyes—yet his expression remained unchanged.
"Sir, I swear to you… there isn't a single letter or dot on this page."
Renoir snatched the paper back violently. The officer recoiled, startled by the sudden reaction.
Then something even stranger happened.
New words bled onto the page:
"Foolish Detective. You alone can see the writing."
The letters began to drip blood, forming another sentence:
"Sit in your home and wait until midnight… Fated."
For the first time, Renoir felt true anger. He wanted to tear the paper apart—but restrained himself.
He slipped it into his coat pocket, then grabbed the officer by the shoulder, smiling unnervingly.
"My apologies. I haven't slept well, so I may be imagining things. I'll take this paper as evidence."
The officer swallowed hard and nodded slowly.
Renoir released him and surveyed the hall once more. The place was unnaturally clean—disturbingly so. An entire family slaughtered without any sign of struggle. Horrifying.
Are my veins about to burst from my skull? Am I being manipulated… or is this just some cheap trick by a pathetic murderer?
He approached one of the bodies and lifted the white cloth from the central corpse.
A young man was revealed—beautiful features, peaceful expression. He looked alive. Not a single wound marked his body, as if he were merely sleeping.
Alive… yet dead.
Renoir placed two fingers on the man's chin—then recoiled instantly, trembling.
"Am I shaking?" he whispered in disbelief.
"The greatest Detective, who has executed and imprisoned countless criminals… trembling?"
Trembling because of a message…
He bit his lip in rage. Blood dripped from his mouth and splattered onto the corpse's face.
A nearby officer noticed and grabbed Renoir's shoulder.
"Sir… are you alright?"
Renoir stood to his full, imposing height.
The officer's face drained of color.
Blood trickled from the Detective's lips—like a vampire's.
A police officer slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, intending to offer it to the Detective. Renoir paid him no attention. He walked past and struck the officer's shoulder as he passed.
The officers present stood frozen in disbelief, watching the Detective's disturbing state.
Renoir exited through the palace's main gate, rain pouring down onto him. He flung his umbrella aside into the garden without hesitation, reached his car, and got in. The engine roared to life, and he sped off toward his mansion.
Thoughts assaulted him from every direction. He pulled his golden watch from his coat and glanced at the time.
Eleven o'clock at night.
Because of the reckless speed at which he drove, he reached his mansion in barely fifteen minutes. He entered without a word, ignoring everyone—leaving the servants behind in confusion, unsettled by his abnormal behavior.
He entered his room, tossed his coat aside, loosened the buttons at his collar, and sat down heavily in the chair. He pulled the paper from his pocket and examined it.
Nothing.
Blank.
He lifted his head, staring at the ceiling as anger slowly seeped into his veins.
He checked the time again.
Around eleven-thirty.
He placed the watch on the table, interlocked his fingers, and leaned back, waiting for time to crawl forward. His expression carried a restrained, simmering fury.
"Not much time left… Let's see whether this is real—or just cheap magic being used in this case."
Minutes passed.
Then the room trembled slightly.
Renoir stiffened, gripping the table as confusion crossed his face. From behind him, a crimson light began to bloom—growing brighter, thicker, heavier.
Slowly, hesitantly, he turned his head.
His eyes widened in shock.
The crimson moon was staring through his window.
"Detective… how do you feel about nightmares gazing at you from beyond your window?"
Renoir snapped his gaze forward.
A woman sat calmly on a chair. Her features were indistinct, blurred by something unnatural. She wore a long black coat adorned with diamonds that caught the red light ominously.
"W-Who are you?!"
For the first time, fear gripped Renoir. His hand trembled openly.
"Me?" she replied coldly, tilting her head slightly.
"Someone you should never have meddled with."
Renoir sprang to his feet, yanked open a drawer, and drew his gun, aiming it straight at her.
"I asked who you are—what the hell are you?"
She laughed softly.
The sound alone sent a chill through him.
In the blink of an eye, she vanished.
Then—
She was behind him.
A dagger rested against his neck.
Renoir's vision blurred. His body locked in place. All he could hear was the faint scrape of steel against his skin.
Her voice echoed, layered and hollow, as if spoken by more than one mouth:
"Nightmares welcome you, Fated."