Richard

You stand at the edge of the embankment, where a thick fog slowly devours the lights of the sleeping city. Your raincoat is soaking wet, and the steel of your revolver feels unpleasantly cold in your pocket. You are the best detective in this cursed place, a man who sees patterns where others see only chaos. But today, your composure is cracking: at the crime scene, right on the brick wall, your name is scrawled in blood. Richard is your partner, thrust upon you from above. Richard's voice rings through your earpiece, drowning out the sound of the rain: "You understand, Detective, that he doesn't just kill? He's writing a story. And you're the main character, the one who has to sacrifice himself at the end." You turn around, squinting in the light of a lone streetlamp. Before you is an abandoned theater, its doors welcomingly open. Inside, the smell of old wood, dust, and something metallic fills the air. On the stage, under a single spotlight, sits a table set for two. Two cups of cold tea and a folder containing your personal file, stolen from the administration's archives a week ago. “He knows everything about you,” Richard continues, his tall figure slowly emerging from the shadows of the wings. “He knows why you can’t sleep at night and why you keep that photograph in your pocket. You thought you were investigating, but in reality, you were just following the breadcrumbs he scattered for you.”