THE DEAD MESSENGER

Time: 3:11 AM. Location: A back alley near the industrial district, thick with fog and the distant echo of a train whistle.

The body was left in plain sight.

That was the first thing Moreau noticed. A professional killing would have been quiet, unseen, forgotten. This? This was a stage.

The second thing he noticed? The corpse was smiling.

Not in a natural way. The lips had been cut at the edges—a grotesque grin, stretched far beyond human limits.

A message.

Moreau sighed, lighting a cigarette. "Well. That's dramatic."

Behind him, Silver leaned forward, adjusting his coat. "You say 'dramatic' like it's a bad thing. Personally, I like a corpse with personality."

Moreau shot him a glance. "You would."

Silver crouched beside the body, poking at the man's shoulder. The corpse rocked slightly—too stiff. Rigor mortis had already set in. That meant the time of death was over 10 hours ago.

Silver whistled. "This guy's been dead a while. Makes you wonder why they waited till now to dump him here."

Moreau exhaled, smoke curling upward. "They didn't wait. They wanted us to find him now."

Silver grinned. "Oh? And what makes you say that, dear genius?"

Moreau didn't answer immediately. Instead, he knelt by the body and ran his gloved fingers over the dead man's coat. Expensive fabric. Tailored. This man had money.

He gently lifted the stiff right arm, exposing a small stain on the inner wrist.

Ink.

Silver frowned. "What, he was signing autographs before he died?"

Moreau ignored him. He pulled out a small knife and scraped a thin layer of dried ink from the skin. It wasn't just ink—it was pressed deep into the pores, as if someone had forcibly stamped it there.

Moreau murmured, "Not an autograph. A seal."

Silver blinked. Then his face shifted—genuine surprise, then curiosity. "You're serious?"

Moreau flipped the corpse's wrist upward, letting the moonlight illuminate it.

A faint imprint of a royal insignia. The ink had faded, but the design was unmistakable.

Silver let out a low whistle. "Well, well, well. That's not something you pick up at the local market."

Moreau stood. "Whoever killed him left this on purpose. They want us to know that this man was connected to the monarchy."

Silver smirked. "Which means they either want us to panic… or they want us to dig."

Moreau took a long drag of his cigarette. "Or both."

The wind howled through the alley, carrying the distant echo of the train's whistle. The same train from the incident.

Moreau narrowed his eyes. Coincidence? No such thing.

Silver stretched his arms. "Alright, let's play detective. First question—who was he?"

Moreau flicked his cigarette away and pulled a small notebook from his coat. He flipped to a blank page.

"I don't know his name," he said. "But I know what he was."

Silver raised a brow. "Do tell."

Moreau tapped his pen against the paper. "He was a messenger."

Silver chuckled. "No kidding. What gave it away? The dead body? The mysterious ink seal? The fact that he's clearly been silenced before he could—"

Moreau cut him off. "He wasn't just any messenger. He was delivering a warning."

Silver's smirk faltered. "A warning to who?"

Moreau clicked his pen and started writing.

"To me."

Silver's grin completely vanished.

For the first time in the conversation, there was silence.

Only the wind, the fog, and the distant whistle of the train.

Moreau stared at the corpse, then back at the faint ink-stamped insignia. The monarchy's seal.

Someone had deliberately sent this man to his death, knowing Moreau would be the one to find him.

Moreau murmured, almost to himself:

"Whoever did this… they know exactly how I think."

And that was the most dangerous part.

Silver, who usually treated everything like a casual game, seemed… tense.

"Alright," he muttered, scratching his neck. "Let's say you're right. Let's say this was meant for you. What exactly is the warning?"

Moreau didn't answer. Instead, he crouched beside the corpse again, his eyes colder now.

The murder was deliberate. The placement of the body was deliberate.

So what else had been done on purpose?

Moreau's gloved fingers traced along the corpse's mouth. The carved smile was deep—but there was something unnatural about it. The cuts weren't jagged, which meant they were made post-mortem.

"Silver."

"Hm?"

"Hold his jaw open."

Silver blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

Moreau looked up. "I need to see inside his mouth."

Silver exhaled. "Ah yes. Because when I see a corpse, my first instinct is to shove my hand down its throat."

"Hold. The jaw."

Silver rolled his eyes and knelt beside him. "Fine, fine. But if a rat jumps out of his throat, I am punching you before I scream."

Moreau ignored him and took out a small penlight. As Silver tilted the head back, Moreau illuminated the mouth—

And there it was.

Something had been shoved deep down the throat.

Silver recoiled. "Oh, what the hell is that?"

Moreau's face remained unreadable. He reached inside carefully, fingers brushing against a folded piece of wax-sealed paper. He pulled it free, revealing a dark red seal stamped on the outside.

Silver stared. "A letter? Seriously? Are we in a Victorian drama?"

Moreau turned the small paper in his hands. It was thick, high-quality parchment. The kind used in old, aristocratic circles.

Silver tilted his head. "You're telling me some royal psycho stuffed a love letter down this guy's throat?"

Moreau didn't respond. He flicked his knife open and carefully slit the wax seal. Then, he unfolded the paper.

There were only four words written in perfect, calligraphic strokes.

"Let the first die."

The words sat between them, heavier than lead.

Silver's usual smirk was gone. "That… does not sound like a love letter."

Moreau's eyes burned with thought. "No. It's an order."

Silver scoffed. "Okay, but 'let the first die'? What does that even mean? First what? First guy to find the body? First-born royal? First course of dinner?!"

Moreau remained silent. He stared at the body again, but now his expression had changed.

Silver frowned. "Moreau?"

Moreau stood slowly, his hands tightening into fists. "Damn it."

Silver blinked. "Uh-oh. That's not a good 'damn it.' What are we 'damn it'-ing?"

Moreau's voice was low. "This isn't just a warning."

Silver narrowed his eyes. "Okay…"

Moreau exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "It's a countdown."

Silver paused. "A countdown to what?"

Moreau turned, his coat shifting as he did. "To the second body."

The train whistle howled again.

And in that moment—Moreau knew they weren't alone.

His hand was on his gun before he even turned his head.

Silver, being far less subtle, immediately spun around, pointing dramatically at the rooftops. "SHOW YOURSELF, YOU COWARDLY WINDOW-LOITERING BASTARD!"

Silence.

Then—a shadow shifted near the fire escape.

Silver grinned. "Oh ho. Would you look at that. We have an audience."

Moreau didn't grin. He was already moving, stepping toward the alley's edge, his sharp eyes locked on the lurking figure.

They weren't running.

They were waiting.

And that was what made it interesting.