Player 5: Can I ask for a small favor?

Ava hesitated for only a second before replying.

You know me?

After a brief pause, a new message blinked onto her screen, crisp and confident.

Player 5: You’re the one standing by the crime scene, right? There’s a small button that activates player identification, just beneath “Start a Discussion.”

It took her a few seconds to find it: a tiny icon, barely noticeable.

She tapped it.

Ding.

A cold system chime sliced through the silence:

“Player identification enabled. You can now spot players at a glance.”

Her gaze swept the street.

Outside a tiny coffee shop, a lone figure sat with casual confidence, sipping some unfamiliar drink. His posture was relaxed, his gaze unfocused; as if he were miles away inside his own thoughts.

And above his head, glowing in bright neon, floated two unmistakable words:

PLAYER 5.

He suddenly lifted his head, eyes locking with hers.

A new message flickered onto her screen.

Player 5: Can this small info be exchanged with a few pictures?

Pictures of what?

She responded quickly, but her eyes stayed fixed on him.

He had already looked away, retreating into that lost-in-thought expression he wore before. The confident pose from moments earlier seemed to sag at the edges. He wasn’t facing her anymore; not the street where she stood, not the spot where the key event had unfolded. He wasn’t looking anywhere, really.

More like… avoiding.

Now that she looked closer—ah.

Even his face was a shade too pale, and the smile he’d flashed earlier, sharp and perfect in the lobby, was nowhere to be seen. What lingered on his lips now was a poor imitation, stretched thin, trembling at the corners.

Could it be that this is too much stimulation for him?

The smells, the colors, the small details.

Well—

even she felt a little light-headed under this combination of scent and atmosphere.

Player 5: Of the scene, of course. From as many angles as possible. Even the surroundings.

She exhaled slowly.

She had already taken a few shots before that message appeared. She needed them too, for context, for perspective, for… whatever truth still clung to this place.

It wasn’t like she was planning to stand here all evening, analyzing every corner.

But the whispers drifting from the onlookers kept snagging her attention, threads of rumor weaving into something heavier, harder to ignore.

“I heard the killer lives in this neighborhood…”

Voices behind her. Low, trembling.

“What do you know? They obviously killed each other.”

A ripple passed through the crowd: curiosity, fear, excitement, all braided into one.

Another whisper, closer:

“A store owner from around here said a witness saw the whole thing but refuses to talk.”

Her grip tightened around the phone.

More like couldn’t talk.

If you saw what led to this bloody scene, you’d probably leave the lights on at night.

Great. Now I have to find another person, she thought bitterly.

A sharp notification snapped her focus back to the screen.

Player 5: Hurry and send the photos.

24 hours is not that long.

The last photo she took was of an alley on her left. It was narrow, half-drowned in shadow. She snapped a picture showing the brick wall, the trash bin, the uneven concrete.

Checking if the photo was clear enough, she caught it: a reflection.

A shape standing where no one should be.

A shadow. Long. Sharp-edged. Perfectly still.

Right at the spot where everything had begun.

She pretended not to notice.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t react.

Really, ignorance was a blessing. No need to risk drawing attention.

Not from that.

Not when she didn’t know whether it could tell she had seen it.

Her pulse quickened, her ears ringing lightly. She inhaled through her nose and let her face fall into a neutral expression—bored, tired, unimpressed. Anything but terrified.

Slipping away, back to the crowd, she sent the photos with a short sentence: “Shadow lurking in the dark.”

The air behind her felt colder now. Thinner.

Like something was occupying the space that had been empty moments ago.

She straightened her shoulders, mask still perfectly in place, as if she were just another bystander, tired of the gossip and commotion.

Whether this was the right choice…

She didn’t watch all those shows and movies to turn around now. She didn’t want to be a lesson for Player 5.

Player 5, upon receiving her message, got up and left. Really smart, if she could land a teammate like him next level, she would be at ease.

Thank you. And, as a bonus, the police arrived at 4 a.m.

“A medium cappuccino and a piece of…”

Looking at the red velvet cake, her face wrinkled and her stomach tensed.

Better avoid red from now on.

“Chocolate cake, please.”

Ava, now sitting in the same place Player 5 had sat, was analyzing the photos while waiting to spot any new findings. And, by the way, Ethan, who had disappeared earlier…

According to the gossip, two people were murdered here. One of them is almost certainly Lily; the other remains unidentified. Even without confirmation, the scene speaks for itself. The sheer volume of blood suggests overwhelming force; trauma delivered with intent, not panic. No one mentioned hearing a gunshot, which leaves only quieter, more personal methods: a blade, a blunt object, a killing done at close range.

The wide shot of the scene reveals a small, quiet roundabout bordered by red spider lilies. In the close-ups, their slender curling petals and long, delicate stamens sway in the breeze like reaching fingers. Under the setting sun, the crimson blooms almost glow, except for one dense cluster that immediately stands out. Those flowers, still in their brief full bloom, have been violently crushed; their stems snapped, petals smeared into the dirt. Nearby, a flattened section of grass hints at a violent struggle, but also something stranger, a desperate resistance, a final attempt to flee or fight that never made it far.

The shot of the alleyway looks fairly normal, putting aside the shadow. No blood spatters, not on the concrete nor on the bin. As for the inside of the bin… well, if there were something, the police would’ve taken it.

It’s not like she doesn’t have enough courage—ahem—to go back there.

Then comes the alleged timestamp: 4:00 a.m.

Checking the collected fragments, the score went up, and the timestamp confirmed:

Score: 46%

Time slot: 3:30 to 4:00 a.m

Why would Lily be out this early, knowing she had exams starting at nine and stretching through the day?

And who alerted the police?

Was it the rumored witness; someone who also happened to be outside at this hour, when the streets should have been empty?

The questions pile up like the subtle marks left behind:

Why did Lily come here?

Who was the second victim, and what were they to her?

And what exactly did the silent witness see?

Enough to be afraid…

or enough to hide?

Because the roundabout doesn’t feel empty now.

It feels observed.

Like whatever happened here left something behind that’s still watching.

At sunset she got up to stretch her legs, wondering if the money she had left was enough for a night at a cheap hotel. Since she didn’t know where “Ava” lived, and didn’t want to risk getting entangled in her family affairs and waste time. Spotting Ethan walking in a daze, she approached him.

“Where did you disappear to? Did you find something? She’s still not answering—”

He lifted his head, and his eyes startled her: dull, void-black eyes in contrast to the bright ones he’d had before she left.

Ava froze mid-step.

Ethan’s head lifted slowly, as if pulled up by invisible strings.

His face was hollow; drained of whatever spark he’d had earlier. Not tired. Not unfocused.

A flat, reflective void, like staring into still water at night.

“Ethan…?” she tried again, softer this time.

No reaction.

He just stood there, shoulders slumped, the weight of something unseen pressing him downward. His breaths were shallow, almost mechanical.

Where did you disappear to?

Did you find something?

Finally, he blinked.

The movement was stiff and unnatural, as if someone were remembering how blinking worked. When he spoke, his voice scraped out of him, stripped of warmth.

“She… left.”