Puppeteer (English)

A puppet is never free. Its movements, its gestures – all are controlled by the hand of a puppeteer who remains hidden in the shadows. It dances, laughs, and cries, yet no thought, no emotion truly belongs to it. The strings, invisible yet all-dominating, symbolize absolute control. The puppeteer sees everything, directs every action, shapes every scene. He decides when the play begins and when it ends. A puppet cannot resist; it can only obey – for in the hands of the puppeteer, it is nothing more than a tool, a means to an end. But what happens when the puppeteer seeks to control more than just a stage? What if his thirst for power becomes insatiable, and he starts to lead people as if they were puppets? In this game, there is only one rule: the puppeteer holds the strings – and everyone else is merely his puppet.

It happened in London. On that fateful day, two young police officers walked through the rainy streets of the otherwise beautiful city. "This is the third case this week. We're almost there," said the more experienced officer to the rookie. A few minutes later, they stood before a large, magnificent theater known throughout the area. While the experienced officer entered the building without hesitation, the newcomer lingered for a few seconds, taking in the sight of the structure before daring to follow him inside. As the duo stepped into the auditorium, the experienced officer briefly caught his breath. "It's been quiet around him these past few weeks, but he's becoming active again…" Shortly afterward, his colleague entered the room, only to be greeted by a grotesque and horrifying scene. Two young people stood on the stage – but they were no longer alive. Their faces were twisted into wide, artificial grins, as if someone had sewn their expressions into place. The stomach of one man had been slit open, while the other's hands were severed, lying on the floor below.

"What the… Who would do something like this…?" The rookie was visibly shaken by the incident, though it was far from an isolated case. The seasoned officer took a deep breath and rubbed his temples before turning to his young colleague. His expression was grave, his eyes weary – not from the job itself, but from the horrors they had witnessed over the years.

"Have a seat, rookie," he said, gesturing to one of the dust-covered rows of seats in the auditorium. "I think it's time you learned the whole story."

The rookie, still pale and with trembling hands, obeyed. He sank into one of the old, creaking seats, while the seasoned officer paused for a moment, as if he needed to carefully choose his words.

"The man we're after is a relatively well-known killer. No one knows who he really is, what he looks like, or why he does what he does. All we know are his actions – and they are anything but ordinary."

He began pacing the room, his hands clasped behind his back. "It started about two years ago. The first discovery was a woman, posed in a similar way to those two over there." He gestured toward the stage, his voice heavy. "Grotesquely smiling, her limbs twisted as if she were a doll in the hands of a cruel puppeteer. Back then, we thought it was an isolated case, the psychotic outburst of a madman."

The rookie swallowed hard but dared to ask a question. "And… wasn't it?"

The seasoned officer scoffed and came to a halt. "No. Weeks later, we found the next one. Then another. Always the same signature: grotesquely staged corpses, always in theaters, opera houses, or other places tied to the stage. It was as if he were sending a message – but what that message is, we still don't know to this day."

He leaned against one of the dusty walls, his eyes fixed on the stage. "The press dubbed him 'The Puppeteer,' and he seemed to relish it. His stagings became more elaborate, his murders more brutal. Sometimes, he'd leave us little… clues. A hand-carved puppet, with engraved initials or symbols we couldn't decipher. It's as if he's pulling us into a game – a game where he makes the rules."

The rookie furrowed his brow, his breathing quickening. "And… and we have no idea who he is? No lead at all?"

The seasoned officer shook his head. "Only guesses. Sometimes we think we're close, but then…" He made a sweeping gesture. "Then something like this happens. He's always one step ahead of us. It's as if he's deliberately drawing us in, just to show us that we're powerless against him."

A brief, oppressive silence filled the room before the seasoned officer spoke again, this time with a hint of bitterness. "I'm telling you this, rookie, because you need to understand: The Puppeteer isn't an ordinary serial killer. He's an artist of death, a master of manipulation. If you think you're safe, then he's already got you tangled in his strings."

The rookie glanced at the stage, where the two grotesquely smiling corpses stood, and felt a tightening in his chest. It was as if the lifeless eyes of the dead bodies were staring at him, as if they were trying to warn him.

"And what… what do we do now?" he finally asked, his voice uncertain.

The seasoned officer stepped closer to the stage, his shoulders tense. "We do what we always do. We look for a clue, a mistake. Anything that might lead us to him." He stopped and met his young colleague's eyes. "But be warned, rookie: Once you fall under his spell, he won't let you go."

The seasoned officer straightened up and squinted as he glanced around the room, as if he had forgotten something. "And one more thing…" he muttered, his eyes scanning the floor with a scrutinizing gaze. "It should be here somewhere."

The rookie furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

The seasoned officer moved purposefully toward the stage, finally bending down to retrieve something from beneath an overturned spotlight. It was a piece of paper, carefully folded and sealed with red wax. The officer studied it for a moment before slowly breaking the seal and unfolding it.

"This," he said, his voice tense, almost irritated, as he unfolded the paper. It was an elaborate script, written in fine calligraphic handwriting. The title read: "The Dance of the Marionettes – Act IV."

The rookie stepped closer, and the seasoned officer began to read aloud:

"Two souls, trapped in the illusion of life, dance their final dance. Their strings severed, their will extinguished. One paid the price for betrayal, the other for their lies. The stage is set, the audience satisfied. And the Puppeteer? He laughs."

An uneasy silence spread as the rookie struggled to process what he had just heard. "What… is this?" he finally whispered.

The seasoned officer folded the script and slid it into a plastic evidence bag. "This is his signature. He always leaves a script like this. Every murder is like a play, a part of some grander plan only he understands. It describes exactly what happened to the victims – and why."

The rookie swallowed hard. "He… he planned all of this? Down to the smallest detail?"

The seasoned officer nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the script. "Down to the last detail. Every murder has a meaning. He gives us the story he wants us to understand – but never the one we truly need to find him. It's his game, and he's the director."

The rookie felt a lump forming in his throat. "What was the reason for these two? Why did he… do that to them?"

The seasoned officer paused, studying the script again before quietly reading aloud: "'One paid the price for betrayal… the other for their lies.'" He looked at the rookie with a grim expression. "Maybe they were connected. Maybe one of them did something that provoked the Puppeteer. We don't know for sure – but I'm certain this is exactly what he wanted us to understand."

He slipped the script into his pocket and turned toward the door. "This is his message. He wants us to watch as he pulls the strings. And if we're not careful, rookie…" He paused, looking at his young colleague with a grave expression. "…we might be the next ones to end up on his stage."

The rookie looked at the stage once more, at the grotesquely grinning corpses, and felt an icy chill crawl up his spine. It was as if he could sense the invisible strings hovering over everything – strings that the Puppeteer was all too eager to set in motion.

Footsteps echoed in the silence as rain pounded against the deserted streets of London. A man pulled his coat tighter, the fabric soaked through from the downpour, though he barely noticed. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, yet his thoughts swirled around something far behind him – and ahead of him.

He turned into a side street, where the city's lights glimmered faintly through the fog. There, he stopped. His breath caught as he recognized the silhouette of a building rising out of the darkness before him.

The theater.

The abandoned building stood like a monument, a relic from another time. Its stone facade was weathered by rain and age, yet the symbolism it carried was alive. The windows stared at him like dead eyes. The entrance, half hidden in the shadows, seemed to mock him in silence.

The man stood motionless, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat. His gaze slowly traced the shattered lettering above the entrance, barely legible now. But he knew what it had once proclaimed: "The Realm of the Stage – a World of Illusions and Truth." A world where dreams had once come alive – and where nightmares now reigned.

The images came flooding back. The laughter. The lights. Then the scream. He felt his chest tighten, anger surging through him, hot and unrelenting. His breathing quickened as the memories stormed through him like an unstoppable tempest.

He took a step forward, only to stop. His hands clenched into fists within his pockets, his jaw grinding with suppressed rage.

"You think you can just keep going…" he murmured, his words swallowed by the darkness. "You think you can hide. Challenge me. Mock me." His voice grew steadier, his tone sharper. "But you can't. I will find you. I will cut every single one of your damned strings."

His gaze lingered on the building one last time. A part of him wanted to go inside, to pierce the darkness, to maybe finally confront him – but he knew the theater was empty tonight. The theater wasn't his enemy. It was the shadow that ruled the stage.

"This isn't over," he said, louder this time, as if speaking directly to the Puppeteer. His voice was a vow. "It's only just begun. I will kill you myself. I swear it on my name – Cedric Ashwell!"

The man turned away, his footsteps echoing once more on the cobblestones. The rain fell harder as he disappeared into the darkness. But the anger within him, the determination, burned like a fire no storm could extinguish.