"Hey, cuz! How'd you like my little social media firework display last night?" A man intruded into his private studio.
Kenzii didn't look up from the canvas. He didn't need to; he already knew the identity of the man who made it his mission to disturb his peace after every assignment. Ignoring the intrusion, Kenzii continued to paint.
I used your favorite artist's account to drag your last target's crimes into the light," Sota announced gleefully, flopping onto a couch nearby. He craned his neck toward the door, checking the hallway. "Alas, what's taking you so long?"
Kenzii knew the drill; the two were inseparable. Moments later, Alas burst into the room carrying a bucket of fried chicken.
"Did you see the post on IG? It went viral!" Alas shouted before he even hit the cushions. "Sota really knew how to broadcast those crimes. And do you know what else he did?" Kenzii remained silent, knowing Alas would spill the details regardless. "Sota added a note saying the 'Soul Collector' is a huge fan of Bruno Martin!"
"Why'd you tell him so fast? I wanted him to guess!" Sota grumbled.
"You're an idiot," Alas barked back. "Bruno is his only favorite artist. What is there to guess?"
Kenzii looked at his cousins. Sota and Alas were both Monteriels—sons of his father's brothers. While they weren't destined to be killers, they were essential to every mission. Sota was a former member of the Cyber Fusion Centre at IGCI in Singapore, making him an elite hacker. He hijacked celebrity accounts or media to expose targets and bypassed CCTV security before, during and after the assignments. Alas, on the other hand, was a detective with the CIDG who tracked the victims' every move. Together, they were the perfect trinity: the Detective, the Hacker, and the Killer.
"Forget it. Just guess what Bruno Martin actually said," Sota teased.
"What?" Kenzii asked, his patience thinning.
"Better find out for yourself!" The two laughed, fueling Kenzii's irritation.
"Hey, don't piss him off," Alas joked. "He might post your own obituary on your idol's feed."
"As if," Sota scoffed. "He can't do that without a penalty—another 100 lives added to the debt." Sota stuck his tongue out at Alas like a child. "Besides, he loves me more. He'd kill you long before he touched me."
The two began bickering on the couch, but the word 'penalty' lingered in Kenzii's mind—the heavy price of shedding Monteriel blood. He pushed the thought aside, wiped his hands, and finally checked the post on Bruno Martin's account.
Sota had been thorough. The post featured every piece of evidence Alas had gathered: photos of the Senator's involvement with drug cartels, records of stolen public funds, and the horrific details of his domestic abuse and the violation of his own family.
Sota had even included a warning written in bold: "If you will not face the law, face the hand of the Devil." Per Sota's usual programming, the post was locked and could not be deleted or the account deactivated for a full week.
Kenzii scrolled through the comments. Half the public saw him as a hero—a "Iron Law" that punished those the system was too weak to touch. The other half was filled with condemnation mostly from those religious people who opposed his brand of vigilante justice.
At the very top, he saw a comment from the account owner himself.
Bruno Martin: Thank you for your service.
A rare, genuine smile touched Kenzii's lips.
"Whoa! Did you see that, Sota?!" Alas yelled, pointing frantically.
Kenzii's smile vanished instantly. Sota stopped mid-shove, his hands still locked around Alas's neck. "See what?"
"Kenzii just smiled! He actually smiled!" Alas cried out, dramatically wiping his eyes.
"What?! No way!" Sota scrambled to his feet. "Hey, show it to me too! That's totally unfair!" He ignored Alas and faced Kenzii. "I'm the one who posted that on your idol's account! Why does this ugly guy get to see the smile and not me?"
"Watch your mouth!" Alas barked, standing up."You just clicked a button. I'm the one who spent days investigating and gathering those photos!"
"I still posted it! I have more right to that smile!" Sota shouted as they tumbled back onto the couch to resume their brawl.
"I've been helping Kenzii for five years!" Alas retorted, shoving Sota's forehead. "I'm clearly more deserving!"
"You only have one year on me!" Sota yelled back.
Kenzii watched them, his heart feeling a momentary lightness. They were the only ones who truly knew him, the only family he concider in this hollow life. A soft laugh escaped him as he watched their ridiculous argument.
The cousins froze. They turned in unison, staring at Kenzii in stunned silence. To them, the sound of his laughter was the most beautiful thing they had ever seen.
…
While Kenzii found a fleeting moment of peace in his studio, six thousand miles away in Lyon, France, the atmosphere was anything but tranquil.
Inside the sterile, high-security confines of the Interpol General Secretariat, the air was thick with the smell of ozone and burnt coffee. Jean-Luc, the Director of Specialized Crime, stared at a massive digital map of the world flickering with crimson dots—each one a life harvested by the "Soul Collector".
"He struck again," Jean-Luc muttered, his voice raspy from lack of sleep. "We've been chasing a ghost for how many years. 998 confirmed victims. How much longer can this go on?"
He turned to a trio of specialist officers; forensic analysts and detectives handpicked for this task force. One of them shook his head, refusing to meet Jean-Luc's gaze. "Sir, the technical forensics are a dead end. There isn't a single digital footprint, no DNA, not even a stray fiber. The crime scenes are surgically clean. It's as if he doesn't exist in the physical world."
"He isn't working alone," a detective countered, leaning against a server rack. "To bypass Tier-1 hotel security and vanish from live CCTV feeds suggests a high-level digital phantom—an accomplice. It's likely a world-class hacker or a compromised agent. Even though the crime scenes were equipped with cameras, he managed to leave every single one of them spotless; while he could be spotted on cameras in the surrounding areas, he was never seen at the actual scenes. Furthermore, the footage from the crime scenes themselves proved impossible to retrieve."
The heavy reinforced doors hissed open. "You're looking for a person when you should be looking for a ritual," a commanding voice cut through the room.
The team snapped to attention. "Secretary General Raddin," they echoed in unison. Behind the head of Interpol HQ stood two individuals who looked entirely out of place in a room full of bureaucrats: a tall, thin man with thick glasses and a clinical, needle-fine precision in his movements, and a woman who possessed the sharp, predatory grace of a high-fashion model.
"As of 0800 hours, I am assuming direct oversight of this investigation," Raddin declared, his authority absolute.
"But Sir," Jean-Luc protested, "we've just secured a lead on the regional logistics—"
"You've been chasing shadows for years, Luc, and you haven't even caught a silhouette. The NCBs are giving us nothing but static! Don't fuck with me." Raddin interrupted, his eyes cold. "You claim there are 998 victims. The actual count is 1,055 and maybe more. There's a dark figure of crime in advanced stages of decomposition that your team missed entirely. Your intelligence is so compromised it's an embarrassment to this organization." He stepped aside, gesturing to the woman. "This is Special Consultant Kenna. She's been running a parallel analysis on the physical impossibilities of the extractions."
Kenna stepped forward, her eyes scanning the room like a thermal sensor. "I've spent months dissecting the autopsy reports of the 'Soul Collector' victims.' They're an anatomical paradox," she said, her voice melodic yet chilling. "The entry wound is a perfect circle, no larger than a bottle cap. Yet, the entire heart is removed. There's no evidence of maceration, no internal crushing to make the organ fit through the opening, and zero signs of a struggle. Physically, it is impossible for a human hand to do this."
"We're aware of the 'supernatural' theories, Special Consultant," one of Jean-Luc's detectives snorted. "But Interpol deals in scientific explanation with evidence, not ghost stories. There has to be a mechanistic explanation."
Kenna smiled, a sharp, knowing expression. "In a modern world, we call it 'impossible'. In the old world, they called it a Black Curse or Black Magic."She paced the room, her silhouette dancing against the glow of the monitors. "I've tracked historical precedents of 'The Devils'—ancient pacts that allow a practitioner to phase matter. It is said to be a family heirloom, transmitted from one generation to the next or bestowed from person to person and it can also be learned. It is often found in specific cultural occultisms in the Middle East, parts of Europe, and across the Asian archipelago."
She stopped and tapped a finger on the map. "By cross-referencing these ancient ritualistic sites, we've narrowed our search from hundreds of countries down to twenty."
Raddin stepped back into the center of the room. "We've relied on modern logic for a prehistoric evil," he said. "With Kenna's understanding of the 'curse' and our new specialists' tracking capabilities, we are no longer looking for a serial killer. We are looking for a demon."