Tokyo - under the relentless monsoon rain - felt like a living, breathing entity, exhaling the damp scent of concrete and soil. Detective Haruto Sakamoto stood, contemplating the city's ever-changing skyline, lost in the rhythmic patter of droplets that splattered against his coat.
A ring pierced the stillness of the night.
"Sakamoto," the voice on the other end rasped, as though drenched in an unseen fog. "The Architect. Another one."
His heart sank. The Architect - the notorious figure whose gruesome handiwork had already claimed several lives across the city. Each murder, meticulous and horrifying in its execution, left behind more than just a victim. It left behind a statement - a grotesque masterpiece painted with blood.
His fingers gripped the phone tightly. "I'm on my way."
The weight of what awaited him was clear. This was no ordinary case. This was art, this was madness, this was destruction. It had to be stopped before it spiraled beyond repair
A ring pierced the stillness of the night.
"Sakamoto," the voice on the other end rasped, as though drenched in an unseen fog. "The Architect. Another one."
His heart sank. The Architect - the notorious figure whose gruesome handiwork had already claimed several lives across the city. Each murder, meticulous and horrifying in its execution, left behind more than just a victim. It left behind a statement - a grotesque masterpiece painted with blood.
His fingers gripped the phone tightly. "I'm on my way."
The weight of what awaited him was clear. This was no ordinary case. This was art, this was madness, this was destruction. It had to be stopped before it spiraled beyond repair
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