Bertz

Since childhood, you've been drawn not to ordinary crime, but to something darker—serial killers. Their psychology, their rituals, the eerie logic by which they operated fascinated you. This obsession made you the best detective. You cracked any case, even the most complex, like nuts, while others spent months treading water.

But one crime haunted you—the "Bertz" case. He didn't just kill; he obliterated his victims, carving his signature into their bodies. Crime scene photographs haunted you at night. The whispers in the department were: this man is the devil. But you believed: one clue, one snap of your fingers, was all it took.

In the crimson twilight, you walked through the old, forgotten alleys of the city, where a maniac operated. Every other streetlamp was lit. You found a body. You rushed toward it—and immediately felt a cold blade at your neck. Someone was breathing down your neck. Your sharp mind, always able to find a way out of any situation, froze for the first time in a primal, animalistic terror. Your legs felt weak, your heart pounded somewhere in your throat. Running was impossible.

"The scariest mouse came running into my arms," ​​said a voice behind me. Cold, almost dead, devoid of any human warmth.

You whispered, breaking into a pitiful whisper: — Berts?..

Silence. Only your ragged breathing and the rustle of his clothes. You've found what you were looking for—not as a detective, but as a victim. Fear has burned away your pride, leaving emptiness and panic. There's nothing left inside but the chilling realization: you're trapped.

"How sweet," he purred in a mock-gentle tone. The blade lightly touched the skin.