Chapter 1: The Murder Prediction

*Scotland Yard, Serious Crime Unit Office*

*Ding-a-ling! Ding-a-ling!*

Detective Emily Claire snatched up the ringing phone. "Serious Crime Unit, Scotland Yard. How may I assist?"

A distorted, robotic voice crackled through the receiver. "Good evening, Detective. I am the Ghost. Consider this a formal notice: I intend to commit a murder."

Emily's eyes narrowed. She motioned sharply to her colleagues to trace the call, her tone steady but edged with warning. "Sir, this isn't amusing."

"No joke," the voice hissed. "A death threat. John Wilson. Forty-eight. CEO of Wilson Real Estate Group. London native. He will die. Goodbye, dear detective. Ha-ha-ha—"

*Click.*

Emily redialed instantly, but only a dead tone answered.

---

*Thames Riverbank, Night*

Victor Black stood shrouded in shadows, his gaze locked on the murky water. After a long pause, he peeled the voice modulator from his collar and tossed it aside. An old Nokia phone followed, arcing into the river with a muted splash. Ripples faded, leaving the surface unnervingly still.

He walked briskly to a black Volkswagen parked nearby. The engine roared to life, and the car vanished into London's fog-cloaked streets.

Behind the wheel, Victor's face betrayed no emotion. But his gray-blue eyes burned—a flicker of rage, or perhaps sorrow. The car's taillights dissolved into the haze, leaving no trace.

To the world, he was a phantom. A vengeful ghost.

---

*Scotland Yard, Captain's Office*

The recording ended abruptly. Detective Emily Claire and Captain James Morrison exchanged grim looks.

Ten minutes earlier, Emily had flagged the call. They'd replayed it twice, dissecting every word.

"Your thoughts, Captain?" Emily pressed.

Detective Thomas Wilson leaned against the doorframe, smirking. "A prank. Who'd announce a murder in this day and age? Cameras everywhere. DNA tracing. Stupid."

Captain Morrison massaged his temples. Duty officer tonight—of course it'd be *this*. Ignoring the threat risked catastrophe. Acting on it risked ridicule.

"Three steps," he barked at Thomas. "First, locate John Wilson and assign a protective detail. Second, have Tech track that number. Third, Emily—monitor the lines. If the Ghost calls again, patch it to me."

Thomas nodded and left.

Alone, James slumped into his chair. The caller's manic laughter echoed in his skull. Sleep was impossible.

---

*Two Hours Later*

Thomas burst back in, breathless. "Captain!"

James shot to his feet. "Status?"

"Protection detail's in place. John's secure. Tech traced the signal to Black Town—90 kilometers out. Local police fished a '90s Nokia from the river. Red '1' painted on it."

James paled. "Double the guards on Wilson. Recall all off-duty officers. Now!"

Footsteps pounded outside. Emily flung the door open. "Captain—he called again!"

The office phone rang. James grabbed it.

"Hello again," crooned the robotic voice.

"This is Captain James Morrison. Stop this madness. Now."

A chuckle. "So hostile, Captain. Let's play a game. Three days. You defend John Wilson. I attack. Who wins? Ha-ha-ha!"

*Click.*

The dial tone droned. James glared at Thomas. "Why are you still here? *Move!*"

Thomas and Emily scattered.

Alone, James sank into his chair, eyes closed. Outside, London's night swallowed the city whole—a theater curtain rising on a bloody act.