Benedict walked down the corridor. His gaze wandered through the bright hallway. He inspected every dark corner and memorized every place where someone could hide. At least it gave him something to focus on.
Because ever since that day—the last time he had seen Isaac—he had been thinking about him constantly. He had thought about him often before, but back then he had different images and ideas in his mind, not the scene he had witnessed.
The mere thought of it left a bitter taste.
Isaac was with Noctis. The realization had hurt more than he had wanted to admit.
So he had avoided contacting Isaac—both privately and at the café. However, Sebastian had told him that Isaac still wasn't working. Benedict didn't know when he would return to the café, but he feared that day just as much as he longed for it.
Since then, he had only wanted to distract himself—from the pain and the shattered hopes he carried within him. He couldn't even say whether Isaac had been playing with him all along, or whether he had misinterpreted everything. Given how obsessive his feelings toward the man with albino features were, the latter was probably more likely.
And that was exactly why he despised himself.
But instead of wallowing in self-pity, he had thrown himself into his work and his investigations. Now that he could no longer face Isaac normally, he at least wanted answers to all the questions about him that kept circling in his mind. He wanted to understand who this person really was—the one who had thrown him so completely off balance.
He had fallen back into his old patterns. He had taken on every case he could get, devoted his nights to documenting them, and in the moments when he had nothing else to do, he continued researching Isaac.
But the more he found out, the less it made sense.
Benedict wished for nothing more than to turn back time. Because what he had uncovered raised more questions than it answered.
The scar on Isaac's neck had occupied his thoughts ever since he learned of it. He wanted to know what kind of fate Isaac had suffered. Benedict longed to understand why Isaac was so cold.
According to official records, his parents were alive, though they did not live in the city. Benedict had tried to contact them, but no number was reachable. Their workplaces knew nothing about them, and he couldn't find out where Isaac's parents currently were. He had even gone there over the weekend, but the apartment was occupied by someone else.
A young man had opened the door—irritated, but believable. He had lived there for years. He had never heard of Isaac's parents.
Either they had never existed, or someone had made them disappear.
Benedict didn't like either possibility.
The investigation into the scar proved difficult as well. He combed through old case files, reviewed newspaper reports about injured or missing children, and worked his way through archives that seemed long forgotten.
It took four nights before he finally found something.
An incident from about seventeen years ago. Isaac would have been eight years old at the time. Unfortunately, he had been able to uncover very little. The child's name was not Isaac's. The police files were heavily redacted—presumably to protect the child—and the records from the hospital in charge were so thoroughly blacked out that even the few gaps revealed almost nothing.
Of the people who had worked at that hospital back then, he had managed to contact only one nurse. She hadn't dealt with the child personally, but she had still been able to provide a few useful details.
At least he knew that the child had never received visitors—except for one man in a tasteful suit. The door had always been guarded, and only a very small team had been allowed access to the hospital room. However, all of those people had died over the years.
Mostly in very unfortunate accidents.
Not even a week later, that nurse had also died in a traffic accident. Benedict had been there himself—otherwise he wouldn't have believed her death. He trusted her information only because she had told him about a white-haired boy with red eyes who had left the hospital on his own two feet seven weeks later.
That boy had been Isaac, without a doubt.
Unfortunately, his investigation had come to an end at that point. He hadn't been able to find any more witnesses, and everything surrounding that incident had vanished into obscurity. Above all, all documentation was useless. It had been protected like some damned state secret.
Benedict ran a hand over his face and exhaled slowly.
Who the hell are you, Isaac?
And once again, his thoughts returned to him.
Damn it.
By now, he had to be suffering from sleep deprivation. Here he was, on the verge of a confrontation with Moonshadow—one he fully intended to end tonight—and yet he couldn't focus on that damned thief because he couldn't tear himself away from Isaac.
It was pure hell. He had lost his heart to Isaac, and apparently it wasn't ready to return to him yet. Still, perhaps it was for the best that they had put some distance between each other. This way, Benedict could find out why everything surrounding Isaac was so mysterious.
Even if, strictly speaking, it was nothing more than stalking.
Benedict pushed the thought aside. His instincts had never failed him, and they were still telling him clearly that something about Isaac wasn't right. So he intended to find out exactly what it was.
"Ben?" came a muffled voice from Benedict's hip. "Can you hear me?"
He grabbed the walkie-talkie and pressed the button.
"A bit unclear, but I can hear you, Jas," he replied.
"Good. What's the situation?"
"No sign of anyone yet."
"Okay. He should show up any moment," Jasper said. "Is everyone in position?"
"Yes. We're within the agreed range. In an emergency, we have line of sight, and in theory nothing should interfere with our frequency."
A faint crackle.
Then Jasper again, drier this time: "Let's just hope no one taps into our frequency."
Benedict's grip on the radio tightened almost imperceptibly. Something told him that was exactly what would happen.
He hesitated for a moment, then pressed the button again.
"Our tactic is pretty old-school this time. Do you think they can adapt to walkie-talkies that quickly?"
A short, rough laugh crackled through the speaker.
"I wouldn't put anything past those damn thieves," Jasper growled.
The walkie-talkies were purely a precaution. If they relied on modern technology, the Phantoms would disable it again with a jamming signal. Whether communication would hold up through these outdated devices, however, remained uncertain.
Benedict just hoped they would at least be able to hear each other. They had disabled the alarm system. The sprinklers wouldn't work either, and on top of that, they had set up enough traps to stop Moonshadow for sure.
The only thing the Phantoms could really influence was the lighting—and for that, they had specifically acquired night-vision goggles. A spontaneous idea Jasper had surprised them with just under two hours ago.
Jasper was determined to see these thieves behind bars, and he was more than willing to exhaust every possible option to make that happen.
Benedict didn't even want to imagine how many asses he had to kiss to pull it off.
And he doubted that Moonshadow would use a flash grenade or anything similar. So far, he had always made sure to leave everything intact. He wasn't the kind of thief who destroyed everything around him without a second thought. Even in combat, Moonshadow had never so much as scratched a single piece of art or knocked over a statue to block someone's path.
Although he stole art, he seemed to revere it.
Lost in thought, Benedict started moving, letting his gaze drift down the corridor—
And froze.
At the end of the hallway, a figure took shape. Completely clad in black, almost one with the shadows. The movements were controlled, silent.
Benedict narrowed his eyes to see where the man was heading. The figure was slowly but steadily sneaking up on one of Benedict's colleagues.
An uneasy feeling tightened in his chest.
What the hell—
He yanked up the radio. "Jas? Is Ink Phantom outside?"
"Not yet. Why?"
Benedict's pulse quickened. "Because I can see him right now. Fuck—tell the others! Ink Phantom is inside the building!"
"Godda—!"
The lights went out abruptly.
Darkness.
The radio in his hand erupted into static. Voices distorted, broke apart, dissolved into chaotic fragments until nothing remained but a shrill, grating noise.
Like nails on glass.
So this line of communication was useless too.
Without hesitation, he tossed the walkie-talkie aside, grabbed his pistol, and disengaged the safety. Then he ran after the figure.
"VISUAL ON INK PHANTOM!" he shouted, loud enough for everyone to hear.
His voice echoed off the walls.
They had a plan, and Benedict would stick to it. In an instant, his focus snapped into place.
Thoughts of Isaac receded into the background—for now, only what lay ahead mattered.
Ink Phantom turned toward him—and immediately broke into motion. He ran, putting distance between them. One of Benedict's colleagues lay on the ground ahead of him. There was no visible blood, but he appeared to be unconscious.
Benedict quickened his pace.
He had to catch one of them—whether it was Ink Phantom or Moonshadow didn't matter. If they got even one, the string of heists would likely come to an end.
His grip on the pistol tightened.
Dead or alive, one of them would go down tonight.
"STOP RIGHT THERE!!!" he shouted after the thief.
Ink Phantom didn't react—not in the way he'd hoped. Instead, he simply raised his hand and flipped him off without slowing down in the slightest.
Benedict's jaw clenched.
You damn asshole.
The museum sank into complete darkness.
Benedict grabbed his night-vision device, pulled it on, and activated it. The green-tinted image flickered briefly before stabilizing. The adjustment was unpleasant—depth felt distorted, movements harder to judge.
He wasn't sure he liked the thing.
But he had no choice except to rely on it.
He continued after the Phantom when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something white dart past. Instinctively, he fired at Moonshadow. No one else would wear white during a heist—but he was abruptly interrupted as Ink Phantom fired back at him.
The impact hit his upper arm. Pain shot through him—hot and sharp—making him stagger for a moment. Benedict gritted his teeth and forced himself to stay in control. He quickly checked the wound and realized it was only a graze.
He decided to pursue Ink Phantom.
Moonshadow still had four of his colleagues on him. Someone would manage to stop him. The objective remained the same: capture at least one thief. The second would be a bonus—a very welcome one. Besides, he was the only one in a position to stop Ink Phantom right now.
His task was clear.
He followed Ink Phantom into a gallery.
No sooner had he entered the room than a sound shattered the tense silence.
The deep, resonant trumpet of an elephant.
Followed by the roaring cheers of a massive crowd.
What the hell…? Ink Phantom was right here with him. How was he still pulling off that ridiculous magic act?
It didn't matter. This was neither the time nor the place to think about it.
Ink Phantom waited for him in the middle of the gallery. In the pale moonlight, Benedict could make out his silhouette. He raised his pistol and fired at the Phantom. In a flash, the man dodged and vanished for a split second—only to strike from the side, out of Benedict's blind spot, with a knife.
Benedict jerked his arm up and tried to evade, but the blade grazed him. A sharp pain spread across his right forearm.
A clean cut.
He cursed under his breath, stepped back, and aimed again.
Ink Phantom was incredibly fast—and much taller than expected. They had estimated him at around 1.70 meters, but the man in front of him was at least 1.90. His opponent didn't make a sound. He attacked again almost immediately, forcing Benedict back with a rapid سلسلة of strikes.
Benedict's focus locked entirely onto Ink Phantom. Instinctively, he knew that the smallest mistake would cost him his life. Unlike Moonshadow, Ink Phantom was willing to kill him. The contrast to the thief he had already faced twice was so stark that his instincts were sounding the alarm.
Something wasn't right.
He just hoped he'd have enough time to figure out what.
Ink Phantom struck from below, slicing open Benedict's shirt. Benedict barely managed to evade. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath came ragged, and sweat was already pouring down his skin.
Get it together, Ben. This guy will kill you without hesitation if you keep drifting!
He quickly raised his pistol as Ink Phantom closed in again. He fired three shots in rapid succession—but missed every one. One of the bullets buried itself in a large painting, its subject barely visible in the darkness.
For a brief moment, he felt a chill—as if something invisible had passed right through him.
A small lapse in concentration that cost him dearly. Because a second later, Ink Phantom was right in front of him. He grabbed Benedict by the throat, cutting off his air. Reflexively, Benedict grabbed his attacker's wrist, trying to break the grip—unsuccessfully.
"Do you have even the faintest idea what you've just done?!" Ink Phantom hissed angrily. Through the mask, his voice was muffled. "Waving that damn weapon around like a fucking idiot! There's nothing he hates more than destroyed art!"
Benedict's vision began to blur.
Benedict struck at his wrists, but Ink Phantom didn't budge an inch. He couldn't quite explain why, but there was something about this thief that made him deeply dislike him.
He choked, then decided to drive a solid kick into Ink Phantom's groin. He drew back—but before he could connect, the thief shoved him away. Benedict hit the ground hard on his back.
His pistol slid out of reach.
For a brief moment, the air was knocked out of him.
He tried to push himself up—but the thief pinned him down with a foot. Ink Phantom's gun was aimed straight at him.
"Bad idea. You were about to harm something very important to me," Ink Phantom said coldly. "Maybe I should just finish you off and be rid of you once and for all."
Benedict didn't flinch.
"Go ahead."
In one swift motion, he grabbed his knife and slashed toward the Phantom's thigh—but the man dodged. Not without firing a shot in return that seemed to explode into Benedict's shoulder. The scream caught in his throat from the pain.
He braced for another attack—but Ink Phantom simply stood there, pressing a hand to his ear. He seemed to be listening to someone.
"Shit!" Ink Phantom cursed.
He aimed at Benedict and pulled the trigger—but nothing happened except a hollow click. The magazine was empty. Annoyed, he holstered the gun.
"Today's your lucky day," the Phantom growled. "Stay right there and wait until this is over—or you'll regret it."
"I've got things to do."
With that, he turned and disappeared, leaving Benedict behind.
For a moment, Benedict let himself fall back onto the floor. If that gun hadn't been empty, he would be dead. Without a doubt. The realization paralyzed him briefly, an involuntary tremor running through his body.
He forced himself to focus on his breathing, fighting to regain control.
He couldn't afford to break down.
So he got up. His muscles had to obey. He couldn't lose—not here. Too much was at stake. If he failed now, he would never be allowed to work on Dan's case again, and his precinct would be shut down.
Shouting echoed through the corridor. Gunshots tore through the silence.
Get it together.
Benedict fixed his gaze on the corridor—just in time to see Moonshadow running away. He took a deep breath, picked up his pistol, and checked the magazine. While moving, he swapped it out, letting the empty one drop carelessly to the floor.
At least he would catch Moonshadow—no matter the cost.
Ignoring the tremor in his muscles, he went after him.
His arm shaking, he raised the gun and fired—only to hit the wall beside the fleeing figure. The shock from earlier still clung to him, throwing off his aim. Slowly, he exhaled, came to a stop, and took proper aim at the white phantom.
One shot—and the thief staggered.
A hit.
But instead of savoring it, Benedict pressed forward. He had to hit him again. At least the man had slowed down. He fired once more—this time striking a statue. He couldn't even tell how many pieces of art he had damaged tonight. He just hoped Jasper would forgive him if he at least caught Moonshadow.
He fired again.
Moonshadow went down.
A triumphant grin spread across Benedict's face. Finally—he had him. This time, the bastard wouldn't slip away.
The thief pushed himself up, but before he could take a single step, Benedict was already behind him. Keeping a small distance, he aimed his weapon at him.
Their last encounter had taught him that Moonshadow was not only fast and agile, but also unpredictable in his technique.
"I told you to stop, you damn bastard," Benedict growled, breathless.
He glanced briefly over his shoulder. His posture was tense—but exhausted. His shoulders sagged just slightly, his movements no longer as precise as before.
Benedict noticed immediately.
Maybe he wouldn't have to do much more.
The thief was already at his limit.
"Why the hell would I stop while you're waving that gun around?" Moonshadow's voice came muffled through the mask, irritated but controlled. "I quite like being alive, thanks."
Benedict stepped closer, ready to fire at any moment if the thief tried something stupid. But the instant he entered range, the white phantom lashed out with a backward kick, striking Benedict's right knee.
Instinctively, Benedict retaliated with a punch to the jaw.
A sharp crack rang out as the mask gave way under his fist.
The next thing Benedict realized was that he hit the ground hard on his back. His weapon skidded across the floor—and suddenly Moonshadow was straddling him. Pinning his arms with his knees, he drove his fist into Benedict's face. Once. Twice.
On the third strike, Benedict turned the tables.
Moments later, he had Moonshadow in a chokehold.
Benedict tasted blood. He spat it onto the floor. Despite the pain from the gunshot wound and the blows he had taken, he grinned—then let out a triumphant laugh. This little thief wasn't getting away from him anymore.
He could hardly wait to uncover his identity. A short, rough chuckle escaped him.
"Let's see who's really hiding behind the mask of the great phantom thief Moonshadow," the cop said triumphantly. His hand reached for the mask.
The moment the words left his mouth, the thief fought back with everything he had. His fist slammed into Benedict's nose, followed by a kick to the stomach—and before Benedict could recover from the pain, Moonshadow had broken free and now stood a short distance away.
Benedict pushed himself up as well.
His shoulder felt like it was about to fall apart from the pain—but he wouldn't give up until he had this thief in cuffs.
"…Bastard," he spat.
A loud gunshot rang out from outside, followed by the panicked roar of a crowd. Benedict didn't know what was happening out there. It concerned him—but he didn't take his eyes off the Phantom for even a second.
He wouldn't let him escape. Not this time.
But Moonshadow didn't move.
Just like Ink Phantom before, he raised a hand to his ear, as if speaking to someone. Moonlight streamed through the windows—bright enough now to see clearly. Benedict switched off his night-vision device; the extra glare had become more of a hindrance than a help.
He could clearly make out the dark stain on the thief's pants.
The noise outside began to settle. He could hear his colleagues trying to calm the crowd.
A full-blown panic was the last thing they needed right now.
"Who are you talking to?!" he snapped sharply.
Moonshadow cursed under his breath.
Benedict's patience ran out. He would arrest him now—even if it was the last thing he did. He lunged for his pistol, picked it up, and aimed it straight at Moonshadow.
"I asked you a question," he growled.
Moonshadow raised his hand, almost apologetically.
"Sorry," he called briefly. "But we'll postpone this. I have more important things to do."
Despite the raised gun, he rushed Benedict and, in a flash, landed an uppercut that sent him crashing onto his back. But instead of following up, he turned and ran—
Straight for the emergency exit.
"Damn it!"
Benedict forced himself up, pushed his body to move, raised the weapon, and aimed.
His hand trembled. His focus faltered. He was at his limit.
"I didn't give you permission to leave! Stop—or I'll shoot!" he shouted after him.
But the Phantom didn't stop. Limping, he kept moving toward the exit.
Fine. Then he'd have to hurt him again. Benedict knew he wouldn't be able to chase him anymore—and he wasn't willing to risk it.
"Damn it… you asked for this."
He aimed for the right shoulder of the white Phantom.
He hit the left.
Shit…
His hand shook. Another shot went off unintentionally. This one struck the thief in the right side. His white outfit quickly soaked red. Without a sound, the thief collapsed to the ground.
Benedict staggered forward, trembling. His arm felt like it needed to be cut off. His gaze remained locked on Moonshadow.
Is he… dead?
He took a step closer. The thief weakly stretched out an arm, dragging himself toward the emergency exit. For a moment, Benedict watched him, almost fascinated.
So he was still alive.
Unbelievably tough—still trying to escape.
Unlucky for him that Benedict hadn't passed out from the pain yet.
He dragged himself over, grabbed the thief by the collar at the back of his neck, and flipped him onto his back. The front of his clothes was completely soaked in blood.
Benedict ripped the earpiece from his ear and crushed it. He wasn't about to let him keep communicating.
"…asshole…"
The voice was barely more than a breath.
The guy sounded far too weak. If Benedict didn't do something about the gunshot wound, the Phantom would actually die.
Benedict's gaze hardened.
"You brought this on yourself," he growled, tense, almost unsteady. "You've made a fool of me long enough. Your lucky streak ends today."
"Lucky streak…?" Moonshadow scoffed. "…If I had any luck… I would've never met you…"
His hands grabbed the thief's blood-soaked shirt. With a sharp pull, he lifted it, pressing against the wounds. Warm blood ran over his fingers.
Too much.
"Damn…" His voice dropped, more focused now. "You need a hospital. I'm not handing you over anywhere before that."
The Phantom let out a faint groan but said nothing more.
His breathing was shallow, uneven. Each breath weaker than the last.
"…you're hurt…," Moonshadow murmured, barely audible.
"Thanks to your damn thief friend," Benedict hissed. "I can't wait to see him behind bars."
He pulled off his own shirt, tore it apart, and wrapped it tightly around the thief's waist. The remaining fabric he used to apply pressure, pulling everything as tight as he could.
Moonshadow let out a piercing scream. His hands trembled as they clutched at Benedict, slipping again and again on the blood.
"…stop…," he whimpered weakly.
Benedict ignored him. His jaw clenched.
A dark realization crept in as the thief beneath him grew weaker.
He's not going to make it.
"No chance. I need you alive!" he snapped.
"…Ben… stop…"
Benedict froze.
His breath caught.
That—
No.
That couldn't be.
For a moment, he thought he had misheard.
His heart began to race.
His chest suddenly felt hollow. With trembling hands, he reached for the thief's mask and tore it off.
It clattered to the ground as he stared at the man beneath it. The usually pale skin was soaked in blood. Snow-white hair clung to it, matted and darkened. Red eyes looked up at him, exhausted.
They glimmered faintly in the moonlight.
But even without it, he would have recognized him anywhere.
The man beneath him was Isaac.
Isaac's eyes met his for a brief moment—then closed.
Benedict's stomach twisted violently. Panic surged through him as he grabbed Isaac by the shoulders and shook him.
"No! Hey—! Stay with me!" he shouted.
Not again.
He couldn't lose someone he loved. Not again.
Everything else became irrelevant.
It didn't matter that Isaac was with Noctis. It didn't matter that he was Moonshadow—the thief he had been chasing for weeks.
None of it mattered.
He just needed him to live.
Tears streamed freely down Benedict's face.
"Damn it, Isaac… stay awake," he forced out, his voice breaking, barely under control.
No response.
No movement.
Only that shallow, fading breath.
A choked sob tore from his throat.
What have I done…?
"Don't die…"
The impact came without warning.
A hard kick to his chest tore him away from Isaac and sent him flying several meters back. The air was knocked from his lungs, his vision blurring.
Dazed, he forced himself upright.
Ink Phantom stood before him. He seemed to be on the phone with someone—then he hung up.
Benedict instinctively backed away. A violent, suffocating bloodlust radiated from the man dressed entirely in black.
"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!" the Phantom roared.
The voice hit Benedict like a physical blow.
He recoiled, slipping against the floor.
He couldn't answer.
His gaze drifted to Isaac, lying motionless, drenched in blood.
Benedict swallowed. "I—I didn't mean to—"
In one fluid motion, Ink Phantom hurled his knife. It drove straight into Benedict's thigh.
Benedict screamed.
When he looked up again, Ink Phantom was right in front of him.
"Did that hurt?" the man asked coldly.
He held up a card. In the pale moonlight, a golden spider gleamed on its surface.
Benedict recognized the symbol.
His eyes widened in disbelief.
Ink Phantom tilted his head slightly.
"Don't worry. You won't die from that. I want to show you what real pain is."
The voice echoed in his mind as his vision slowly darkened.
He's the killer who—
Then everything was swallowed by a deep, absolute darkness.
It felt as if the ground had vanished beneath him. Benedict lost all sense of orientation. He couldn't even tell up from down.
He tried to steady himself.
Failed.
Then he heard a quiet voice—one far too familiar.
"Ben…"
A voice he would never forget.
Trembling, he looked around. Tears ran down his face.
His breath caught.
His entire body tensed.
"…Dan?" he asked hoarsely.
His own voice sounded broken.
As if someone had switched on the light, Dan suddenly stood before him—only to collapse into his arms the very next second.
Blood.
"No—!"
Far too much blood poured from his body, no matter what Benedict did. His scream tore through the silence. He tried to stop the flow—but he couldn't.
Dan lay dead in his arms.
Benedict's hands trembled. His breath broke.
"So that's how it is? You're responsible for his death?" came Ink Phantom's voice.
"Fuck you, Ink Phantom!" Benedict snapped, his voice shaking.
A disapproving sound followed.
"I'm afraid I have to disappoint you, my dear. I'm not Ink Phantom," the distorted voice said.
It sounded distant.
"They call me Sandman," the voice whispered—now right next to his ear.
Benedict jolted to the side in shock. Dan was gone. Panic surged as he searched for him—but once again, that all-consuming darkness surrounded him.
"Sand…man?" Benedict managed.
"Have fun with your beloved," Sandman said. "I'm sure you have a lot to talk about."
The voice drifted away again.
Then Sandman's mask appeared directly in front of his face.
Benedict flinched violently, stumbling back. Sandman tilted his head.
"You should hurry, though—before he chokes on his own blood."
A snap echoed.
Dan appeared again, glowing faintly like a firefly.
"Be glad—you can try as many times as you like."
Then he laughed. The sound faded, and Benedict was alone again—with Dan.
Tears streamed uncontrollably down his face. Once more, he felt the weight of his dead fiancé in his arms.
He couldn't take it anymore.
He closed his eyes—
and let himself fall into the darkness.