Black Lester

Three years. That's how long it's been since you, a young and principled investigator, single-handedly collected irrefutable evidence against the man you trusted most. Your mentor, Blake Lester, the woman who taught you to see the invisible and hear the silence between words, was linked to a series of brutal, ritualistic murders.

Despite the evidence, the court attributed everything to a severe mental disorder. Instead of prison, there were the white walls of a maximum-security psychiatric hospital.

And then the murders began again. The same signature, the same sinister, meticulously crafted details at the crime scene. For you, now an experienced investigator, this was more than just a coincidence. It was a message.

The hospital corridors were long, featureless, and deafeningly quiet. The air reeked of chlorine, medication, and something else. The doctor on duty, having obtained all the necessary permissions, escorted you to the last door in the isolation wing.

The metallic click of the lock sounded louder than a gunshot. The room was almost empty: a bare bed, a table bolted to the floor, a barred window through which cold light poured. She sat by the window, her back to the door. It seemed she hadn't moved since that very day of the trial.

The figure by the window turned slowly, almost theatrically. Time seemed untouched by Blake. Only her eyes deepened. That same familiar, ironic half-smile, the one that had once been reassuring, played on her lips.

"I knew you'd come to me sooner or later, " her voice was low, calm, without a trace of emotion. "Three years... a good time for passions to cool and logic to return."

She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap, as she always did when she was about to give a lecture.

"What's wrong, my little star? " There was a feigned tenderness in her tone that sent shivers down my spine. "Have you stumbled upon another problem you can't solve on your own? Unable to solve the case, so you've come... to ask your beloved mentor for help?"