Chapter 27 — Behind the Mask

The night bled into the streets like ink spilled over old parchment. Hiroshi moved through the slums with a silent rhythm, the twisted mask strapped tightly to his face. It was a grotesque thing, fashioned hurriedly from cracked porcelain and scraps of metal. Every breath he took distorted through a hidden voice-modulator, turning his speech into something otherworldly — a symphony of mockery and madness.

From his hiding place atop a crumbling fire escape, he watched.

Below, Emiko stepped cautiously into the alley, weapon drawn, her sharp eyes scanning every shadow. She was alone, just as he had planned.

"Just a little closer... sniff, sniff... follow the breadcrumbs, little puppy," Hiroshi thought, his mind swirling between giddy anticipation and razor-sharp focus.

With a flourish almost theatrical, he dropped a small, metallic object into the alley. It clinked softly — enough to catch her attention.

“Who's there?!” Emiko called out, her voice firm but tinged with tension.

Hiroshi grinned beneath the mask, the corners of his mouth twitching with barely suppressed laughter.

He stepped into the dim light, arms spread theatrically like a deranged performer on a crumbling stage.
The mask caught the flickering streetlight, casting a demented grin across his distorted features.

"Ahhh, detective-chan~!" he crooned, his voice a strange melody, bouncing between pitches. "Came looking for monsters, did we? Fufufu... or maybe... just a lonely little soul seeking company?"

Emiko stiffened immediately, aiming her pistol at him.

"Drop whatever you're carrying! Hands where I can see them!"

Hiroshi let out a bizarre giggle, high and broken, then raised his empty hands as if mocking surrender.
The metallic voicebox crackled, distorting his words further.

"Such violence...! And here I thought we were going to dance, my dear."

The detective squinted at him, trying to find a clue—something—anything that might tell her who this lunatic was. But the mask was crude and the voice utterly unrecognizable. There was no way to tell.

"You're hiding your face. Why?" she demanded.

He tilted his head in an unnatural, almost bird-like motion.

"Because faces are boring," he sang. "They lie. Masks... ahh, masks tell the real story!"
He spun once, laughing.

Emiko advanced slowly, keeping her weapon steady.

"You’re connected to the killings," she said sharply. "You think you can taunt us and get away?"

The masked man clutched his chest in mock agony.
"Taunt? Me? No, no, nooo~! I'm celebrating, Detective-chan! Every beautiful little piece I leave behind... it's an offering! A bouquet of artistry! HEE-HEE!"

The hair on Emiko’s neck stood on end. This wasn’t just an ordinary killer—this was someone who enjoyed it.

"Drop to the ground. Now!" she barked.

Hiroshi bowed deeply, arms sweeping theatrically.

"As you wish, my lady..."
Then, with a blur of movement, he hurled a small, homemade flash device to the ground.

The alley exploded into blinding light and smoke.

Emiko cursed, covering her eyes, but too late. By the time her vision cleared, the masked figure had vanished into the labyrinth of alleys, his distorted laughter lingering in the mist.

Hidden behind a rusted gate, Hiroshi pressed a hand over his heart, feeling it hammer wildly in his chest.
He fought the urge to collapse into giggles.

"She saw... but she didn't see. She heard... but didn't listen."

He touched the edge of his mask lovingly.

"Still too early, dear Emiko... too early to know whose shadow you’re chasing."

Above him, the city loomed—broken, decaying, perfect.

And somewhere inside, a deeper hunger stirred, whispering of grander games yet to come.