The café was warm and golden in the way cafés always seemed to be when the world outside was grey. Rain pressed faintly against the windows, thin streaks of water crawling down the glass, distorting the streetlights into ribbons. The smell of coffee and burnt sugar hung in the air. For a while, it almost felt normal — Kazou stirring his tea without drinking it, Natalie resting her chin on her hand, Hannah silently demolishing a pastry with the kind of seriousness that only she could manage.

  There was a hum of conversation, spoons clinking. The muted TV above the counter was tuned to the evening news — the sound barely audible under the chatter. Kazou wasn’t watching. He was too deep in thought, eyes half-lidded, mind elsewhere. But then the word death floated through the noise, followed by a name that made the blood in his veins freeze, even if he had no clue who the name belonged to.

  “Anna Smirnov.”

  Natalie’s head turned toward the television. “Wait—”

  The café grew quieter as the reporter’s voice grew sharper.

  “—found last night on the grounds of the university. Looking as if she had jumped off the philosophy building's roof. Authorities are investigating whether her death was suicide or foul play. Police are considering a connection between this incident and a string of unusual disappearances across the region…”

  The image on the screen cut to the Wroclaw School of Philosophy gate, now blocked by yellow tape. Then to a familiar face — one Kazou hadn’t seen in a year.

  Rose Brook.

  She stood in front of a cluster of microphones, her blonde hair styled neatly, her expression tight with restrained fury. Cameras flashed around her. The caption beneath read: Ex-fiancée of Dr. Kazou Kuroda speaks out.

  Kazou’s hand froze on his cup.

  “My name is Rose Brook,” she began, her voice trembling but fierce, “and I was once engaged to Dr. Kazou Kuroda — the man responsible for the series of murders now being linked to Wroc?aw University. I know you’re watching, Kazou. I know you see this. You need to come forward and admit what you’ve done. You need to surrender — before more innocent people die.”

  The café fell silent. Even the clinking of dishes stopped. Everyone's eyes were on the screen.

  Natalie turned toward him slowly, her face pale, her pale blue eyes wide with something between shock and disbelief.

  “Kuroda…” she muttered.

  But Kazou wasn’t looking at her. His gaze stayed fixed on the TV — on Rose’s face, the cold fury in her eyes, the way she said his name like a curse. He wished he could tell her that he didn't do it.

  He exhaled sharply, stood, and buttoned his coat in one motion. “We have to go.”

  “Ku-, wait—”

  He didn’t answer. He threw a few coins onto the table, grabbed his bag, and strode toward the door. Hannah blinked, mouth full of pastry crumbs, then scrambled up and followed. Natalie hesitated for a moment, torn between confusion and fear, before running after them.

  The café worker, a young man with messy hair, stared at the empty table, the untouched tea still steaming faintly. He looked toward the television, then back at the door — but said nothing.

  ***

  The hotel room was dark except for the flickering blue glow of the same broadcast. The curtains were drawn, the air stale with smoke. Anders sat on the bed in his undershirt, a cigarette burning in one hand, his expression unreadable.

  On the screen, Rose was still speaking — her eyes wet, her hands gripping the podium as she said Kazou’s name again. Anders smirked, the kind of smirk that doesn’t reach the eyes. Then, softly, he began to laugh.

  “Rose Brook,” he said, his voice a rasp. “So brave. So righteous. Thanks for giving me your name and face."

  He leaned forward, crushing his cigarette in the ashtray. The laughter grew darker. “You’ll have to die too, darling. You’ll have to. Because sooner or later you’ll realize he’s innocent — and then you’ll start asking questions you shouldn’t.”

  His expression hardened, all trace of amusement gone. “And we can’t have that, can we? Not when Casimir’s work is so close to completion.”

  The TV anchor mentioned more in passing — “As a precaution, students at the Wroclaw Philosophy school will be located for questioning”—and Anders’s grin faltered. For a second, rage twisted across his face.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  He picked up the remote and hurled it. The TV shattered with a sharp crack, glass splintering across the carpet. The image went black.

  "NO! NO! NO! NO YOU WILL NOT! YOU HAVE TO NOT CATCH CASIMIR!" He cried.

  Breathing hard, Anders sat back down, reached for the phone sitting on the nightstand, and began dialing. Each click of the dial echoed in the silence.

  CLICK CLICK CLICK

  “Leon,” he muttered under his breath as he dialed. “Leon… It’s been a while.”

  He smiled to himself as he waited for Leon to pick up the phone.

  ***

  Hannah was panting, her brunette hair plastered to her forehead. “Kuroda, what the heck was that?! I was in the middle of eating the yummy cake!"

  He didn’t answer immediately. His eyes were distant, calculating, as if the world was closing in from all sides.

  “It’s over,” he said finally, voice low, panting. “He’s gone too far. Casimir. He’s killed again.”

  Natalie’s eyes snapped toward him. “You don’t know if Casimir was connected to that case.”

  “I do,” Kazou said, quieter now. “I can feel it. The pattern’s the same. The way it spreads. It’s him. It has to be him.”

  “Kuroda…” Natalie started, but he cut her off.

  “It’s now or never. I have to end this before he takes more lives. Before he—”

  “Stop!” Natalie said sharply, her voice cracking. “You’re talking about killing him.”

  He met her eyes. Sweat slid down his face. “Yes."

  Hannah looked between them, confused, frightened. “Wait—kill? Kill who? What are you—”

  Natalie grabbed Kazou’s arm. “You can’t, Kuroda. You can’t kill Casimir.”

  “He’s a murderer.”

  "You think I don't know that!?”

  “He’s manipulating everyone, Natalie! He—he’s spreading something. Whatever he’s doing, it’s turning people into—”

  “I don’t care!” she shouted, tears flashing in her eyes. “You can’t become him! If you shoot Casimir, you’ll become the man you hate! The same man Rose thinks you are! You don't want to become like him! I won't let you!"

  The words hit him like a blow. Kazou froze, eyes darting downward. For a moment, the fury drained out of him, leaving only exhaustion.

  Hannah’s breathing slowed, and she reached out, patting his shoulder gently.

  “Dr. Kuroda…” she whispered. “Please. Please don't hurt anyone, even if they are a bad guy. Because that means you also become a bad guy!"

  He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared at the concrete floor for a long time. Then, slowly, he stood up.

  When he looked at them again, his face had changed — quiet, resolved, unbearably tired. He pulled his coat collar up to obscure his face.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Natalie blinked. “Dr Kuroda—what are you—”

  “Don’t follow me.”

  He stepped out into the sun and started walking, his figure blending with the shadows at the end of the alley.

  Natalie grabbed Hannah’s hand and ran after him, but by the time they reached the street, he was already climbing into a taxi. The door slammed. The cab pulled away, its red taillights fading into the distance.

  Natalie stood there on the sidewalk, trembling, her hair sticking to her face from the sweat.

  “Kuroda…” she whispered.

  Beside her, Hannah stared at the empty street, her expression unreadable.

  Then, faintly, from somewhere far away — the sound of church bells, muffled by rain.

  As if the city itself were tolling for what was about to come.

  ***

  The city rolled by in streaks of gold and blue, the whir of the engine blending with Kazou’s thoughts. He sat back in the back taxi seat, his hand clenched loosely around the strap of his bag, his reflection ghosting faintly in the window.

  He hadn’t said a word since they pulled away. The driver, an older man with a cigarette tucked behind his ear, didn’t ask questions.

  Kazou stared out the window. The world beyond was blurred — neon signs bleeding into the wet streets, silhouettes passing under trees and light poles. The evening sunset turned the city into something dreamlike, fragile, unreal.

  Then — his breath caught.

  Through the haze of the window, he saw a figure walking down the sidewalk, pale blonde hair, gold under the sunlight, hands folded neatly behind his back.

  Casimir.

  He was in no hurry. His white scarf fluttered lightly in the sun, catching the glow of passing cars. His gait was calm, unhurried — like a man out for a quiet stroll through the end of the world.

  The taxi slowed for a turn. For a moment, everything seemed to stretch, to pause. The city noise fell away.

  Casimir turned his head.

  And their eyes met.

  For one instant — maybe a second, maybe an eternity — Kazou felt the air leave his lungs. Casimir’s gaze was soft, almost affectionate. And then he smiled. Not wide. Just a small, knowing curve of the lips — the kind of smile that said I knew you’d come.

  Kazou’s fingers tightened around his coat. His pulse thundered.

  The cab turned the corner, and Casimir was gone.

  The spell broke. Kazou came back. The noise came back. The world snapped back into motion.

  Kazou blinked hard and turned to the driver. “That road we just passed — where does it lead?”

  The driver glanced in the rearview mirror, slightly startled by the sudden question. “That one? Ah, you're a foreigner... That's Wroc?aw University. You know it?”

  Kazou didn’t answer at first. He stared out into the street behind them — into the place where Casimir had been.

  “Yeah,” he muttered finally, voice barely audible. “I do now.”

  The driver shrugged and turned back to the road.

  Kazou leaned back in his seat, exhaling shakily. His reflection trembled against the glass — pale, tired, haunted. He thought of Rose on the television, of Natalie’s pleading voice, of the look in Hannah’s eyes when he said goodbye.

  All of it was collapsing toward one point.

  Casimir was here.

  In Wroc?aw.

  At the university.

  And this time, there was no running.

  Kazou’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening.

  “Take me there,” he said quietly.

  The driver glanced up again. “To the university?”

  Kazou nodded. “Yes.”

  The taxi turned sharply at the next light, the tires hissing on the puddled pavement.

  In the reflection of the window, Kazou saw his own eyes — the same eyes that once looked upon his creation with pride, and now with dread.

  He whispered to himself, barely audible over the engine,

  “Casimir Bielska… This will end soon. I won't let you kill more people.”