The grand hall of the Livingstone Mansion was a place of elegance and history—massive marble pillars stretched towards a ceiling adorned with golden patterns, and the grand chandelier above cast a dim, flickering glow over the polished floors. But in this moment, elegance meant nothing.
Chaos erupted.
A deafening crash split through the air as the massive chandelier shattered, raining glass and metal upon the hall. The force of its fall shook the ground, sending a ripple of dust and debris through the room. The once-pristine hall was now a battlefield.
And from the dust, he emerged.
A figure cloaked in darkness, his presence like a shadow given form. The Grim Reaper.
His mask, an eerie, expressionless visage, concealed any trace of humanity. His cloak billowed as he stepped forward, his movements unnaturally smooth—as if the air itself parted for him.
The moment his form became clear, gunfire erupted.
The police officers didn't hesitate.
The sharp crack of gunshots echoed through the hall as bullets tore through the air toward the Reaper. But…
He moved.
Not like a man—but like a phantom.
Each bullet missed. Not because of luck, not because of chance, but because his body twisted and flowed between the shots with inhuman precision.
He was unreadable. Unstoppable. Untouchable.
And then, he spoke.
His voice was deep, yet eerily calm, resonating through the hall like an omen.
"Violence… the great equalizer. A currency paid in blood, an unrelenting force that governs all who seek control. You, the law, hold guns believing they bring order. But order… is an illusion. All things end in chaos. In death."
The room stood still.
A beat of silence.
Then—a slow clap.
The sound was mocking.
All eyes turned.
Alexander Bluestone was clapping.
His sapphire-blue eyes glowed under the dim light, and his lips curled into a smirk. His golden pocket watch gleamed as he leaned slightly forward, amusement radiating from him.
Then came the laughter.
Low at first, then rising. A genuine laugh.
The Reaper's masked face turned toward him. Watching. Waiting.
Alexander took a step forward. "Impressive words, I'll admit. You certainly have a way of dressing murder with philosophy." His voice was calm, deliberate. "But tell me… do you truly believe in what you say? Or is this just a show?"
The Reaper tilted his head slightly, as if intrigued.
But then—movement.
A sudden rush of footsteps.
Rover Livingstone ran.
The once-powerful millionaire, now trembling, bolted toward Alexander.
"Alexander, help me!" His voice was desperate. "Please! He's going to kill me!"
The Reaper moved.
In a flash, his hand reached for his blade—a deadly, curved knife meant for the kill.
Rover ran faster. Desperation in his eyes.
He rushed behind Alexander, seeking safety. Seeking cover.
And then—
BANG.
A single gunshot tore through the air.
The sound reverberated through the grand hall.
Rover staggered.
His eyes—wide. Disbelieving.
A red bloom spread across his white shirt.
The gun in Alexander's hand still smoked.
Rover collapsed, gasping as his hands clutched his wound.
Silence.
Everyone—Roselia, Darmian, Madison, the officers—stared in shock.
Roselia's voice broke the silence. "Alex… what the hell?!"
Alexander simply smiled.
"Rover was mixed with Grim."
The words fell like ice.
Roselia's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"
Alexander gestured toward Rover's belt. "Look closer."
Darmian, still in shock, moved cautiously. His hands trembled as he pulled back Rover's coat.
And there—strapped to his belt—was a small, hidden knife.
Deadly. Positioned for a quick, silent kill.
A weapon meant for one target.
Roselia's breath hitched. "He… he was going to stab you?"
Alexander exhaled slowly, spinning his golden pocket watch between his fingers.
"He wasn't running to me for protection." His voice was eerily calm. "He was running to me for an opportunity."
A slow, steady clap echoed through the hall.
Not from Alexander this time.
From The Grim Reaper.
He let out a low, amused chuckle. "Fascinating, Alexander. Truly fascinating."
His voice was not one of disappointment.
It was one of satisfaction.
He turned.
And without another word—he vanished.
Disappearing into the shadows as if he was never there.
The room remained still.
Roselia, Madison, Darmian, and the officers stood frozen—admiring Alexander.
Not just for his deduction.
But for his cold, calculating brilliance.
Alexander simply smiled.
Because this was only the beginning.