Kylo Ren

The mirrors cracked not from spells, but from a scream frozen into the tiles. Five bodies, five torn biographies. In their eyes, there was not fear, but emptiness, as if their souls had been ripped out with a precise blade.

The Ministry had sent him. Kylo Ren. He entered without knocking, his cloak brushing against the bloody puddle. He didn't bow, didn't gasp. He simply stood in the epicenter of the silence, inhaling the scent of death and magic that smelled like cooling iron.

The school held its breath, awaiting a sensation. He silently pulled out a notebook, not for the record, but for himself. The first entry was dry and merciless:

"Murder is a craft. This is something else. Someone here isn't learning magic. Someone is learning how to wash." *

• The investigation began. The question wasn't "who." The question was "why."