GHOST DETECTIVE

Tension already gripped the city like a tightening noose when another body surfaced—this time, far from Gawin's precision and eerie perfection. 

No whispers of floating men, no scentless kills. This was messy. 

Brutal. 

Human.

In an abandoned building near a cluster of decaying warehouses, the sharp stench of blood broke the morning stillness. 

The structure had long been a refuge for squatters, addicts, and those forgotten by the city's official maps.

A pair of delivery boys found the body while sneaking in to smoke.

They ran.

By the time patrol officers sealed the area, word had already spread through the neighborhood like wildfire. Crowds gathered fast, faces pressed against the yellow tape, cell phones raised like torches in a witch hunt. 

The media picked it up in minutes—"Another Victim?" "Is the Butcher Back?"

But it wasn't the same.

Detective Marin arrived with her nerves frayed. 

Dr. Holt followed behind, his kit already open. 

The scene they found told a different story. Blood splatter. A broken chair. Duct tape discarded in the corner.

"This one fought back," Marin muttered.

Dr. Holt nodded, inspecting the bruises, the fractured jaw, the visible stab wound to the chest. "Definitely not like the others."

"No." Commander Graye joined them, his coat soaked from the drizzle. "This is no ghost story. This one's real, and probably stupid."

Marin looked at him.

"A copycat?" she asked.

Graye shook his head. "Someone seizing the moment. This city's terrified—makes it easy to kill someone and blame the phantom."

Marin crouched beside the body, looking into the vacant eyes. "Then we've got more than one murderer now."

"Exactly," Graye said grimly. "And one of them hides behind smoke and mirrors."

Back at headquarters, the news of the new murder spread fast.

But the CRIS team remained cautious. Dr. Holt reviewed the autopsy photos again and again. "This one bleeds like a man. No anomalies. No chemical trace. No capsule. Just violence."

Still, fear didn't care about details. The city only knew there was another body.

And the legend of the faceless killer kept growing.

Gawin's Personal Room...

The bathroom tiles were pristine white, steamed gently from the warm water in the bathtub. 

Gawin lay submerged up to his chest, arms draped on either side of the porcelain edge. His hair was wet, his skin glowing faintly golden under the soft amber lights.

A row of small, yellow rubber ducks floated serenely around his stomach.

He hummed—low, aimless, tuneless—something between a lullaby and a ritual.