"—Aurgghg—"
The gurgling sound of a drowning man echoed through the empty, mist-ridden streets of Tingen's Iron Cross Street.
The source was not some unfortunate individual who had fallen into water, but a twitching man sprawled across the cold cobblestones. His throat had been violently stabbed, blood struggling to gush outward, only to be blocked by the large shard of wood still lodged deep within his neck. The wound could not properly bleed — instead, the blood filled his throat, choking him from the inside.
His body trembled.
His fingers clawed weakly at the ground.
His eyes had already begun to lose the luster of life, their fading gaze locked onto the man responsible.
A gentleman stood a few steps away.
Black trench coat, Black top hat and a plain white mask — the mask of sorrow, carved into a crying expression that felt less like grief and more like mockery.
Around the dying man were broken shards of wood, likely from a crate or some discarded wooden structure. To any normal passerby, the logical conclusion would be simple: a drunken man, consumed by intoxicated rage, smashing apart wooden debris before tragically tripping on his own untied shoelaces and impaling himself.
An unfortunate accident.
Of course, such a crime scene would not deceive any half-decent detective, nor the official Beyonders.
But Moriarty was not particularly worried.
Any death in Iron Cross Street and similarly poorer districts — rarely stirred much attention. A tramp. A petty criminal. A poor man with no influence. The city did not mourn such people.
The masked man calmly stepped away from the scene, boots tapping softly against the damp stone. Reaching the edge of Iron Cross Street, he removed the white mask and tucked it neatly away.
A short walk later, he entered a nearby café.
Due to its proximity to Iron Cross Street, it was hardly the most elegant place for morning coffee or breakfast. The wooden tables were worn, the windows slightly fogged, and the air carried a faint scent of cheap tobacco.
"Good morning, Sharla. The usual."
Moriarty's voice was mellow, relaxed — a soft hum of refinement. A warm, effortless smile rested on his face as he addressed the girl manning the till.
Taking his seat, he unfolded the newspaper he had picked up at the entrance.
He hummed lightly to himself.
If anyone were to observe this refined gentleman — neatly dressed, composed, immersed in current events — they would never guess he had just come from a crime scene.
And in truth, Moriarty himself felt little concern.
He had grown used to this life.
A few weeks had passed since he learned of the acting method through the Tarot Club. In order to find the essence of what a "Criminal" truly was, he had conducted numerous experiments — testing hypothesis after hypothesis, refining his understanding through action.
He had come to several conclusions.
A criminal is, by nature, a deviant — one who breaks the law. A criminal walks the line between safety and danger, their actions constantly jeopardizing themselves. A criminal must be capable of heinous deeds — and more importantly, capable of getting away with them.
To confirm these parameters, he committed a variety of crimes, observing how the digestion of the Criminal potion progressed.
The more vile the crime, the greater the digestion.
Murder, in particular, proved remarkably efficient.
To this date, he had taken four lives — not counting Dudlene.
Each victim had been of poor financial standing. Each had a criminal record of some kind. And each had been unfortunate enough to cross paths with him.
Despite telling himself that taking a life was vile, that killing was evil, that he should feel something — guilt, disgust, hesitation — the truth was simpler.
He felt almost nothing.
The moral commonalities of his past life on Earth no longer held weight. And by nature, he had come to realize, he was a cold and unmoving person.
As for why he had not yet been caught — the answer was simple.
His victims' profiles.
The poor policing of the area.
The random and unrelated nature of the deaths.
Even if the murders were discovered, the police would not allocate many resources. And without a clear pattern, suspicion of a serial killer would struggle to form. The official Beyonders had no reason to involve themselves.
"Here you go, Mr. Moriarty."
Sharla placed a glass of black coffee before him, alongside a plate of egg-toasted bread, lathered in a light syrup and topped with a handful of berries.
"Ah, thank you, Sharla," Moriarty replied politely.
He had specifically chosen this café as his morning dining spot. It was close to his "playground," and it served as a convenient alibi. Whether a killing occurred or not, he was often here at the same time.
A refined gentleman enjoying breakfast.
What could be suspicious about that?
Suspicion is a strange thing.
The closer you are to an incident, the more suspicious you become. Yet paradoxically, the less you appear related on the surface, the more likely you are to be involved.
Maintaining a middle ground naturally neutralizes suspicion.
We fear dangers that are too close — threats we cannot escape.
We also fear dangers that are too far — unseen, lurking in the dark.
But if we can clearly see the threat, and believe we have ample time to react…
Even a wild beast becomes harmless.