Veins of Dust

The rain fell like jagged needles, slicing into Arata Hoshino's skin as he lay sprawled on the cracked concrete. Neon lights buzzed overhead, a pale sickly glow bleeding through the suffocating fog of the night. Around him, four bodies lay twisted and broken, faces locked in masks of terror. A black vein, carved deep and deliberate, marked their throats—a cruel signature.Arata's fingers grazed the damp pavement, sticky with blood not all his own. His mind throbbed, foggy and scattered with shards of memories that refused to piece together. Panic bubbled beneath the surface, but he forced his lungs to draw ragged breaths. Logic demanded he stand, think, act.Before he could rise fully, the crack of shattering glass snapped the moment apart. He turned sharply, instincts honed from years in the force flaring to life. A shadow slipped between collapsing fire escapes, vanishing into the rain-soaked maze of alleys.A voice buzzed in his ear, narrow and cold, slicing through the noise. "Detective Hoshino — the game has begun."Arata froze, rage sparking in his chest. "Who is this? Show yourself.""Closer than you think… but every step you take leads deeper into darkness." The voice trailed off into static, leaving nothing but the pounding rain.He forced himself up, wincing as the jagged bottle he'd clutched pierced his palm. His blood mixed with the grime beneath, marking him as much a part of the night as the dead around him.Cautious footsteps echoed from the far end of the alley. Arata's grip tightened, eyes scanning the gloom. But nothing emerged. The trap had been sprung—and he was the prey.Years on the force had taught him one thing: there were no simple criminals left in Kaiden. Every murder, every violent act tangled into webs of power, hidden agendas, andpsychological destruction. And this black-veined massacre? Someone was rewriting history— his own bloody past.His knee cracked on impact as he fell again, a sharp whistle of pain mingling with his panic. But this time, he absorbed the pain instead of succumbing. He had to remember. Had to find the pieces of a shattered life buried beneath corpses and lies.And so began a relentless chase—a battle not just for survival, but for the truth twisted within every scar and whispered secret.As the sirens wailed closer, Arata's eyes locked onto the wet pavement, stained like veins of dust under neon light. Somewhere beyond, the puppeteer smiled.