London, 1893. The rain came down like a punishment, thin and endless, veiling the cobblestone streets in a sheen of cold reflection. Detective Edmund Harrow walked through the damp haze, collar turned up, eyes sharp beneath the brim of his soaked hat. A cigarette burned weakly between his fingers — the only light daring to fight the dark.
It had been months since the letter. Months since the police station blast that left half his department buried in rubble and smoke. Edmund's right arm still ached from the shrapnel that nearly took it off, but the pain had long since become part of him — like guilt.
He didn't talk about it. Not the screams, not the ash, not the whisper that came before the detonation.
> "FOOL."
He remembered that single word more vividly than the explosion itself. The word that somehow burned through his mind like scripture carved into flesh.
Now, he hunted the man — or thing — that had written it.
And somewhere deep down, he feared the truth more than failure.
---
The streets smelled of coal, wet metal, and rot. A constable followed behind him, boots slapping through puddles.
"Sir, are you sure this lead's reliable?" he asked.
Edmund didn't look back. "I don't deal in reliability, Kent. I deal in patterns. The Fool leaves his mark where logic breaks — that's where we start."
They arrived at an old boarding house in Whitechapel. Paint peeled off its façade like dead skin, and a lantern flickered in the window, barely alive. The landlady, a frail woman with a lazy eye, recognized Edmund immediately. "You again," she muttered, voice heavy with smoke. "There was a man here last night. Tall, pale, dressed like a preacher. He left this for you."
She handed him an envelope. Sealed in black wax — a mocking echo of their first encounter.
Edmund tore it open. Inside was a single scrap of paper.
> "Chasing a shadow will only make you one."
He crumpled it, shoved it into his pocket.
"Get the men ready," he said. "We're not sleeping tonight."
By midnight, the rain had stopped, but the fog was thicker than ever. They tracked the trail through alleys — narrow veins of darkness between the old brick hearts of the city.
Someone was toying with them. Doors opened. Footprints appeared then vanished. A lamp flickered just long enough to cast a silhouette — tall, slim, and wearing a grin.
"Sir—there!" Kent shouted.
Edmund drew his revolver. "Fan out!"
They ran — boots hammering the stone. Shadows twisted like smoke around them. Edmund turned a corner, breath sharp, and saw him — the Fool — standing at the far end of the street beneath a gaslight. His face was calm. Too calm. The grin never faltered.
"Stop!" Edmund yelled.
The Fool tilted his head, eyes glimmering gold in the dark.
> "Hunter or prey, detective?"
Then he ran.
The chase tore through the heart of London — over bridges, through old markets, into the catacombs below. Each step echoed with madness. Edmund fired once — the bullet ricocheted. The Fool laughed. A high, broken laugh that sounded like two voices speaking at once.
Then — silence.
Edmund turned a corner — and the Fool was gone.
In his place lay a small, silver mask — cracked down the center.
He picked it up. Something moved behind him — a whisper brushing his ear.
> "You're getting close, Edmund. Close to losing yourself."
He spun — nothing.
Only the sound of his own pulse roaring like thunder.
Two days later, Edmund hadn't slept. His office smelled of ink and stale whiskey. The walls were lined with case files, all pointing back to the same name. His colleagues said he was obsessed. Maybe he was.
But obsession was the only thing keeping him sane.
Then came the telegram: "Warehouse by the docks. Come alone. I'll give you the truth."
He went without hesitation.
The warehouse was silent — empty but for the rhythmic creak of hanging chains. He raised his lantern. Shadows danced across the walls. Then — movement. A figure bound to a chair in the center, gagged, bruised.
A woman. Alive.
He hurried forward. "Who did this to you?"
Before she could answer, he noticed the fuse running beneath her chair — leading to a barrel.
He froze.
The Fool stepped out of the dark behind him — wearing the cracked mask Edmund had found.
> "You've been a fine detective, Harrow. But every hunter must learn — prey bleeds slower when it thinks it's winning."
He pulled the fuse.
Edmund lunged forward, knife slashing the cord before the spark could reach. The Fool vanished into smoke, leaving only his laughter behind.
The explosion still happened — just not where Edmund expected. His men, waiting nearby, were caught in the blast that tore half the docks apart. Edmund was thrown into the water, lungs burning, consciousness fading.
When he woke, it was all white. Hospital walls. The faint sound of a heart monitor. His arm bandaged. His mind fogged.
Kent sat nearby, bruised but alive. "You're lucky to be breathing," he said. "They pulled you out just in time."
Edmund didn't reply. His head throbbed — not from pain, but from a whisper.
Footsteps echoed outside the room.
Then — silence.
A shadow leaned over him.
The Fool — mask gone, face hidden in the dim light.
He bent close and whispered:
> "It's not the end, detective. It never was."
Then he was gone. No doors opened. No windows moved.
Edmund's eyes snapped open — the whisper still echoing in his skull. His pulse raced.
He turned to his colleague, who was flipping through his notes casually, unaware.
"Kent…" he muttered.
Kent looked up. "What is it?"
Edmund's voice was hoarse. "Did anyone just come in?"
Kent frowned. "No, sir. No one at all."
Edmund stared at the doorway — empty — and felt his heartbeat slow to something unnatural.
Somewhere beyond the veil of sanity, the Fool laughed.