The glass-and-steel monolith of the Interpol General Secretariat in Lyon felt colder than usual. Inside the Strategic Coordination Centre, the air was charged with a frantic, electric energy. Dozens of analysts moved like clockwork, but the man at the center of the room, Secretary General Raddin, remained a statue of grim contemplation.
"Sir, you need to see this," Kenna said, her voice cutting through the hum of computers. She didn't look up from her tablet, her fingers dancing across the screen to throw a digital news clipping onto the main sanctuary wall.
It was an international news bulletin from a prominent Russian outlet, currently trending with thousands of shares. The headline screamed in bold Cyrillic and English: "SOUL COLLECTOR STRIKES AGAIN: BRUTAL KILLING AND ARSON ATTACK."
"The article was leaked through an encrypted account directly to the news cycle," Kenna explained, her sharp eyes scanning the data. "It details the deaths of Anastaliya Petrovna Novikova—a high-profile CEO with suspected ties to the underworld—and a person named Dmitry Kuznetsov. As usual, the article includes evidence of the crimes they committed. But it's the third man, Nikolas Ivany, who is the wild card. He turned himself in to the Moscow Police Department (MVD) three hours ago."
Raddin leaned forward. "Get the MVD on the secure line. Now." He demanded, this case is making him look much older than his age, as if the entire investigation is draining his very lifeline.
The holographic link flickered to life, revealing a weary-looking Colonel from the Russian police. The conversation was terse. Interpol wasn't just asking for information; they were demanding it.
"Colonel, we have been tracking this 'Soul Collector' for years," Raddin stated. "Your incident in the warehouse—give us the specifics."
"It is... unusual, even for him," the Colonel replied, rubbing his eyes. "We have two bodies. The woman, Novikova, her body was found in the grass ground next to the other victim. Her heart was removed with that signature surgical impossibility your Consultant Kenna described. But the man, Dmitry, was beaten to death with blunt force trauma. His head was almost crushed, which led to his death. No heart taken. And then there is the witness, Nikolas."
Kenna stepped into the frame. "What did the witness say, Colonel?"
"He is terrified. He claims a 'phantom' emerged from the fire. He says the Collector spared him because he wasn't sinful enough and he was told to surrender to the police." He scratched his head, looking visibly troubled. "But here is the problem: Nikolas cannot—or will not—describe the face. He claims it was a mask, a shadow, a blur. He surrendered himself to detailed all his boss's wrong doings. He's practically begging for a prison cell just to be away from the streets."
"Was there any evidence recovered from the crime scene?" Kenna asked desperately.
"None. He burns the whole place clean. Even the streets with CCTV cameras that he might have passed through—he wasn't caught on any of them." The Colonel replied.
As the call ended, Kenna turned to her partner, a veteran detective named Marcus, who was known for his cynical, ground-level intuition.
"Three times," Kenna whispered, pacing the sterile floor. "In the entire history of this killer, this is only the third time he has taken two lives at once. And he only takes a sole heart. Taking heart is his signature killing method but why kill two people and only get a single heart?" She asked in confusion.
"It's a deviation," Marcus grunted, chewing on a gum. "Usually, he's a surgeon. This time, he was an executioner. He killed the CEO with his signature method, but he killed the guy because he wanted to. Though they have one thing in common. Both of them were criminals, and that made them acceptable victims for the soul collector's targets."
"He's so random," Kenna argued, pointing at the map. "Moscow, Japan, China, France, US, England... there's no geographical pattern. No age pattern. Just 'transgressions.' How do we catch a ghost that doesn't have a schedule?"
"We don't wait for him to move," Marcus said. "We find out where ghosts like him go to hide."
"And that's a hellish way to know. He has already killed 10 people for the past two months and we are still stock on 15 countries to search for him." General Raddin said weakly, losing all hope. "I fear I'll be gone from this post before we ever lay hands on him."
.
The transition from the oppressive, grey concrete of Moscow to the ethereal, ancient air of Kyoto felt like waking up from a fever dream. Kenzii arrived at Kyoto Station as the morning sun began to bathe the city in a soft, golden hue. He wasn't here for a hunt; he was here to breathe, he did it every now and then when he felt like he needed to. For twenty-four hours, he wasn't the Soul Collector. He was just a traveler, a ghost drifting through a city that thrived on the preservation of time.
He headed straight for the Arashiyama Bamboo Grove. The towering stalks of emerald green swayed in the breeze, creating a rhythmic, hollow knocking sound that drowned out the intrusive thoughts of blood and silk. Kenzii held his camera, his finger hovering over the shutter. He captured the way the light filtered through the canopy—the komorebi—seeking a perfection that didn't involve the taking of a life.
By the afternoon, he was walking through the vermillion gates of the Fushimi Inari Shrine. Thousands of torii gates lined the mountain path, forming a tunnel that felt like a passage between worlds. He spent hours climbing, his breathing steady, his mind finally finding a rare, fragile peace. He took photos of the stone fox statues, the moss-covered lanterns, and the sweeping view of Kyoto below. In these moments, he could almost forget the weight of the 91 souls he still owed.
The peace, however, was destined to be short-lived.
By 11:00 PM, Kenzii was making his way back toward Gion to reach his boutique hotel. He preferred the narrow, historic alleys of the Geisha district, where the wooden machiya houses whispered of centuries-old secrets. But as he turned into a secluded side street near the Shirakawa Canal, the silence was shattered by a muffled cry and the sound of fabric tearing.
Kenzii stopped. His instincts, sharpened by years of violence, immediately locked onto the source. In a dark alcove between two shuttered tea houses, three men had cornered a young woman. They were dressed in cheap suits, their faces flushed with the ugly heat of alcohol and predatory intent. One held her arms pinned against the cold wood, while another reached for the hem of her dress.
Kenzii sighed, the sound barely audible over the woman's panicked sobbing. He didn't want to do this. He wanted his one day of peace to remain untainted. But the "Collector" within him recognized the stench of these men—not deep enough to be targets for the Primordials, but rotten enough to be discarded.
"Let her go," Kenzii said, his voice cutting through the alley like a shard of ice.
The men spun around, startled. The leader, a man with a bloated face and glazed eyes, sneered. "Mind your own business, tourist. Get lost before we break that expensive camera of yours."
Kenzii didn't repeat himself. As the leader lunged forward, swinging a clumsy fist, Kenzii moved with a grace that was almost supernatural. He stepped inside the man's guard, his hand flashing out to strike a pressure point in the neck. The leader collapsed instantly, his body hitting the cobblestones like a sack of grain.
The other two froze. They looked at their fallen comrade, then at the young man standing calmly in the moonlight, his expression as cold as the stone foxes at the shrine. They drew small switchblades, their hands trembling.
"You have ten seconds to run," Kenzii said, his eyes darkening. "If you're still here when I finish counting, you won't be leaving on your own feet."
Panic finally overtook their lust. They scrambled away, tripping over themselves as they fled toward the main road. Kenzii didn't chase them. Instead, he pulled out his phone and made a quick, anonymous call to the local Koban (police box), giving them the exact coordinates of the unconscious leader and a description of the two fleeing suspects.
He turned to the woman. She was huddled against the wall, shaking violently. Kenzii didn't move closer; he knew his presence, even as a savior, was still a threat.
"The police are on their way. Stay here, stay in the light," he said softly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, clean handkerchief—the same kind he used to wrap his last trophy—and tossed it to her. "Clean yourself up. You're safe now."
Before she could even stammer out a thank you, Kenzii vanished into the shadows of the Gion district. He didn't want a statement. He didn't want a reward. He just wanted the night to end.