Puppeteer (English)

The rain fell in dense veils onto the slick streets of London, transforming lantern lights into blurred circles of gold and making the world seem like a stage set hastily designed by someone. The man pulled his hood lower over his face as he walked through the side alleys, his goal always in sight: the old, abandoned theater. It was a relic from another time, with crumbling plaster and shattered windows that stared into the night like empty eye sockets. Once a place of splendor and art, it was now a monument to something darker – to the game of a man who called himself Puppeteer.

The man paused, his hands buried in his pockets, his fingers clenched around the cold, smooth surface of a small flashlight. His gaze was fixed on the large wooden door of the theater, blocked off by red-and-white police tape. It fluttered in the wind, as if trying to warn him. But he had long since decided to ignore those warnings. His steps echoed on the cobblestones, a faint reverberation that sounded like a threat in the silence of the street.

A faint glimmer of light broke through the dense clouds, and for a moment, the old-fashioned brass plaque above the theater's entrance gleamed. "La Belle Nuit" was written on it, the name of the once-splendid venue. He clenched his teeth. Splendid. A fitting word for the cruel humor of the Puppeteer, who had chosen this place for his grotesque performances.

The man took a deep breath and pulled a small leather pouch from his backpack, containing his improvised equipment. He did not hesitate. In one smooth motion, he swung himself over the low barricade and disappeared into the shadows of the entrance area. The rain, which until now had fallen on his head like a gentle drumming, suddenly fell silent as he reached the overhang.

He knew the stories. He had read the reports, devoured every line about the Puppeteer's gruesome stagings. But standing here, at the place where people were turned into grotesque marionettes, was something else entirely. It felt as if the air in this building had its own weight, oppressive and filled with unspoken screams.

The door was ajar. Of course. The Puppeteer wanted someone to come. He wanted an audience. The thought made the man pause, one hand resting on the door. A bitter smile flickered across his lips. "You want an audience, Puppeteer? Fine. Here I am." His voice was a whisper, swallowed by the darkness.

With a soft creak, he opened the door and stepped inside. The flashlight in his hand cast a narrow beam of light, stirring dust particles in the air. The hall was a ruin, with fallen ceiling beams and shattered furniture. But that was not where his gaze was drawn. No, it was the stage.

It was untouched, almost pristine, as if the Puppeteer had just prepared it. A red curtain, dusty but intact, hung in heavy folds. In front of it stood two chairs, perfectly aligned, as if waiting for the next act. On one of the chairs sat something. Something small. He approached, the flashlight trained on the object, and froze.

A marionette. Hand-carved, with fine, intricate features. It smiled at him, an artificial, rigid smile that wrapped a cold hand around his heart. The note it held in its tiny, motionless hands was the only human thing about it. He reached for it, his fingers trembling slightly.

"A new scene is being written. The curtain falls tomorrow."

But the answer found him first. A sound, quiet, almost imperceptible, like a shadow shifting. He spun around, the flashlight trembling in his hand. "Who's there?" His voice was steady, but his heart beat faster. The silence replied. Yet there it was—barely audible laughter, drifting from the darkness, followed by footsteps.

He had to leave. And he had to do it now.

He turned and ran, the flashlight slipping from his hand and hitting the floor with a clatter. The light flickered before going out, leaving him in complete darkness. But he knew the way, feeling along the walls, stumbling through the entrance hall, and pushing the door open. The rain pelted his face as he finally emerged outside, gasping for breath, his heart pounding.

Behind him, in the shadows of the theater, the darkness seemed to grow thicker. And then—nothing. No sound, no movement. The Puppeteer had seen him. That much he knew. But he didn't care. Cedric pulled his hood back over his head and walked away briskly.

"Tomorrow," he murmured. "I'll find you before you stage your next act."

Cedric felt the rain like fine needles on his face as he ran through the empty streets. His breath came quickly, his thoughts raced. The note in his pocket seemed to grow heavier, as if it were dragging him down, yet at the same time, it was his weapon—a clue, a piece of the puzzle in this endless game the Puppeteer was playing against London.

He stopped in front of an unassuming café, its neon sign flickering "Open 24 Hours." It was a place that barely stood out, perfect for what he had in mind. Cedric pulled his hood lower over his face to avoid the security camera above the door and stepped inside. The warm scent of coffee and stale grease hit him, a strange contrast to the icy wetness outside.

Behind the counter stood a young woman, barely older than twenty, staring at her phone with a bored expression. She looked up as Cedric entered but said nothing. That was good. He didn't need questions, didn't need attention.

Cedric sat at one of the back tables, pulled an old, battered laptop from his backpack, and opened it. The device was slow and bulky, a relic from another time, but that was precisely why it was useful. No connection to his real life, no way to trace it back to him.

His fingers flew across the keyboard. The screen flickered briefly, then a secured browser opened. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the note he had found in the theater. Cedric typed the words, each one carefully and deliberately. Then he added a brief message:

"A clue. The theater. The curtain falls tomorrow."

He leaned back, his hands still resting on the keyboard. His gaze lingered on the message he had just written. It was anonymous, precise, devoid of any hint of personal motive. It was exactly what he needed. Yet he knew it wasn't enough. It was never enough.

He pulled another sheet of paper from his pocket, an old map of London with marked locations glowing in red ink. Cedric stared at the map, his thoughts racing. The Puppeteer had a pattern, a recurring scheme. But this new clue was different. Why the theater? Why now?

"Because you want to be seen," Cedric murmured softly. "That's all you ever wanted."

He let the map sink onto the table, reached for the keyboard again, and added another line: "The pattern doesn't fit. You have 24 hours."

With a click, he sent the message to an encrypted address. It was the only way to communicate with the police without putting himself at risk. He knew the message would be reviewed, analyzed, and taken seriously—just like the many others he had sent before.

But this time was different. This time, he was too close. The Puppeteer had noticed him. He could feel it, like a shadow following at his heels.

Cedric closed the laptop and slipped it back into his backpack. He stood up, casting a quick glance at the young woman behind the counter, who barely noticed him, and left the café. The rain had stopped, but the streets were still deserted. The night felt darker than before, as if the city itself were holding its breath.

As he slipped into the next alley to avoid the main streets, he pulled his hood tighter around his face. "Tomorrow," he murmured. "I'm ready."

But deep down, Cedric knew he wasn't ready. No one ever was. Not against someone like the Puppeteer.

In a modern building in the heart of London, the Metropolitan Police Department's office buzzed quietly with activity. Detective Eliza Cole stood before the large digital map glowing on the wall, her eyes scanning the marked locations. She looked tense, but her posture was upright, her voice sharp.

"Another anonymous tip," one of the technicians said, handing her a printed sheet. "This time, the old theater. Someone seems to love us."

Eliza took the sheet and skimmed the message, her eyes narrowing. "The pattern doesn't fit," she murmured. "Interesting. Whoever this is, they know more than they're letting on."

"Or he is the Puppeteer," one of the younger detectives suggested, turning away from his desk.

Eliza shook her head. "No. That's not his style. The Puppeteer doesn't play games with us. He writes them. But this?" She held up the sheet. "This is a warning."

The police chief, Jonathan Harrington, entered the room, his presence impossible to ignore. "Cole," he said in his gruff tone. "Do you think it's legitimate?"

Eliza nodded slowly. "It fits. We have to check it out. If we do nothing, and something happens..." She let the sentence hang in the air.

Harrington nodded and turned away. "Then go. I want results. If this is a joke, I want the person who wrote it."

Eliza watched him leave, a strange feeling rising within her. Whoever had sent this message was either a genius or a madman. Perhaps both. And she had the sense that she would meet him very soon.

Eliza slipped into her jacket and grabbed her bag as the team prepared for the mission. The room buzzed with a tense energy, almost tangible. Everyone knew that any clue, no matter how vague, could be critical. She tried to organize her thoughts, but the sentence from the anonymous message echoed in her mind: "The pattern doesn't fit."

"Cole!" one of the technicians called out from his station. "I traced the IP address the message came from. Public access point at a café in Southbank. No cameras, but it's a solid lead. The sender didn't want to be found."

"Of course not," Eliza muttered, jotting down a quick note. "And the map that was attached?"

The technician clicked around on his screen until a digital map lit up. The red markings were clearly visible, one of them prominently placed right on the old theater, which had become the scene of a gruesome murder just hours earlier.

"That looks like an analysis of the Puppeteer's pattern," Eliza said thoughtfully. "But this marking here..." She pointed to a location in the eastern part of the city, far from the previous crime scenes. "That's new. Why would someone mark this place?"

"Do you want us to send someone there?" one of the detectives asked, joining her side.

Eliza hesitated. It was always risky to allocate their limited resources based on a hunch, but she had a good instinct for these things. "Not yet. The theater comes first. If this is a distraction, we need to focus on the obvious."

The police team arrived in several unmarked vehicles in front of the old theater. The building looked even more desolate under the diffused glow of the streetlights. It was as if it absorbed the horrors of its past and radiated them into the night.

Eliza was the first to step out, pulling on her gloves as she surveyed the surroundings. "All quiet. Too quiet." She motioned to two officers. "Secure the entrance. No one goes in or out except us."

The team moved cautiously inside, their flashlights cutting through the darkness and casting long, eerie shadows on the walls. The smell of mildew and damp wood filled the air. It was no wonder this theater had been abandoned—it felt as if it were cursed.

Eliza stepped onto the stage where the two bodies had been found. The floor was still marked with chalk outlines, and though the bodies had long since been removed, their presence seemed to linger in the room.

"Ma'am, over here!" one of the officers called out. Eliza hurried over to him and spotted a small envelope resting on a chair. It hadn't been there when forensics had examined the scene. Someone had left it afterward.

She carefully opened the envelope, her hands trembling slightly. Inside was a handwritten note:

"A dance only ends when the Puppeteer allows it. You are my audience, nothing more."

Eliza's grip on the note tightened. "He was here," she said quietly, almost to herself. "He's watching us."

Another officer, who had been searching the stage, suddenly picked something up. "Ma'am, here's something else. A marionette."

The small wooden puppet was intricately carved, with a distorted expression that seemed to convey both a smile and pain. Eliza took it in her hand and gently turned it. On the back, something was etched: "For the leading lady."

Eliza furrowed her brow. "Leading lady? Does he mean me?"

"Ma'am, take a look at this!" Another officer shone his flashlight on the stage floor. There, almost invisible in the darkness, new markings had been drawn in the dust—arrows pointing toward an unassuming trapdoor.

"What's down there?" one of the officers asked nervously.

Eliza took a deep breath. "Only one way to find out. Cover me." She drew her weapon and signaled to the team to open the trapdoor.

The trapdoor led to a dark, narrow staircase that descended into the foundation of the theater. It smelled of decay, and the air was heavy and stagnant. Eliza and her team moved slowly, each step a muffled thud on the old wooden stairs.

Below, they found a small room that had clearly been unused for a long time. But in the center of the room stood a wooden table, upon which something lay: another marionette, this time much larger and more detailed. It was draped in a grotesque pose, as if it were screaming in terror.

"What the hell...?" whispered one of the officers.

Eliza approached the table and noticed that another envelope was attached to the marionette. She opened it carefully. Inside was a drawing—a man with a distorted expression, standing in an alley. Beneath it was a single word written: "Witness."

"This is a warning," Eliza said in a hoarse voice. "He's telling us that someone has seen something."

"Or that he's seen someone," one of the officers added.

Eliza straightened up, her eyes narrowing. "We need to find the sender of this anonymous message. And fast."

After a brief pause, Eliza continued, "Unfortunately, it will probably be difficult to get him to cooperate with us directly."

One of the detectives spoke up energetically: "Then we'll force him to. We're the law. He can't just refuse to help us."

The lead officer shook her head. "No, that wouldn't be a good idea. He's likely the key figure in this case. It's important to respect him if we want respect from him."

The detective turned away. "And what do you want to do instead?"

With a determined expression, she replied, "I've already spoken to Harrington about this. We're setting up a new unit, only with the most essential people, to figure out the Puppeteer's identity. I'll stay in touch with you and call when I need you. Trust me, this is how we'll find the Puppeteer soon."

The rain pounded relentlessly against the windows as Cedric unlocked the door to his apartment. The key trembled in his hand, and his shoulders sagged, as if the weight of the world rested on them. The apartment was small and cluttered, the smell of cold coffee and old paper filling the air. Without a glance at the darkness behind him, he stepped inside and slammed the door shut with a dull thud.

He pulled off his wet jacket and tossed it carelessly onto a chair. His face was gaunt, his eyes reddened from lack of sleep. A faint creak filled the room as he made his way into the heart of the apartment—a chaotic office that looked more like the hideout of a madman.

The room was filled with notes, newspaper clippings, and photos. The walls, desk, and even the floor were covered with documents. Red threads stretched across the room like a web, connecting images of crime scenes, suspicious names, and handwritten notes. In the center of the chaos stood a large desk, upon which a single photo rested: Isabelle Ashwell, Cedric's sister, with a radiant smile.

Cedric stared at the photo, his hands gripping the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white. "Isabelle..." he murmured hoarsely, before sinking into the chair in front of the desk with a deep breath.

He grabbed a stack of files and spread them out in front of him. Each page was filled with highlighted sections, clues, and theories he had gathered over the past few months. His fingers moved frantically over the documents, his eyes darting from one point to the next.

"There is no coincidence," he whispered, pinning another photo of a crime scene to the wall. "Everything has a pattern. He thinks he's clever, but I'll figure it out. I'll find you... I'll find you." His voice grew louder, more determined. "And when I find you, it'll be over. For you."

The rain drummed harder against the window as Cedric suddenly paused. He grabbed a pen and jotted something down on a map. Then he leaned over his laptop, the keys clicking like the steady hammering of a madman.

Minutes passed. Hours. The clock ticked relentlessly on as Cedric sank deeper into his work. The flickering of the screen was the only light in the room, and his face was marked by an almost insane determination.

Finally, he leaned back, closed his eyes for a moment, and murmured, "I will avenge you, Isabelle. I swear it. No matter what it costs."

In that moment, the doorbell jolted him from his thoughts. It rang loudly through the quiet apartment, an unexpected break in the grim routine. Cedric's eyes slowly opened, and for a moment, he remained still.

"Who...?" He turned toward the door and stood up hesitantly. His hand reached for a letter opener on the desk, gripping it tightly as he walked toward the door. The bell rang again, piercing and demanding.

Cedric grabbed the doorknob, his heart racing. But before he opened it, he glanced back at Isabelle's photo on the desk. "I won't let anyone stop me, Isabelle."