Ren moved forward slowly. The pressure in his chest built with each step, like walking toward the eye of a storm, except… quieter. Softer. Beckoning.
He reached the door.
Paused.
A sound came from inside.
A single note.
Music?
Low and melancholic—piano or harp, he couldn't tell. But the acoustics were impossibly clear, like someone was playing it just beyond the doorframe.
Ren tightened his grip on the edge of the door and pushed it open.
The suite within bloomed before him.
It was vast, opulent, and hauntingly serene.
The floor was marble, patterned in a celestial motif—black sky speckled with stars underfoot. Velvet drapes the color of dried blood framed the tall arched ceiling. Gold chandeliers hung above, not from chain, but from thread-like strands of floating crystal. Along the walls, fine art—real, not prints—hung in gilded frames. Some were portraits, others abstract. A few… moved, gently shifting like dream-mirrors as he passed.
In the center of the room was a chaise longue, draped with rich silks and cushions. Beside it, an ornate side table held a silver tray and delicate glass flutes of something that shimmered gold and red at once.
Ren took a step in.
The door whispered shut behind him, sealing the room in a hush that felt both sacred and forbidden.
Ren stood still for a moment, breath shallow.
The air was warm here. Languid. Like the room itself exhaled slowly, watching him.
He walked in a slow arc, eyes sharp.
The celestial floor glinted beneath him like walking on a fragment of night sky. A painting on the far wall seemed to shift as he passed—once a woman cloaked in feathers, then a forest on fire, then just… a pair of eyes, watching.
A breath of wind—not from any vent—ruffled one of the heavy drapes.
Then came a voice.
Smooth. Polished. Laced with something just a touch too practiced.
"You could've knocked, you know," the voice said, lilting with a cultured accent—somewhere between old imperial and stage-trained charm.
Ren turned sharply.
From behind one of the silk curtains stepped a man.
He was tall, lean, perhaps early thirties by appearance—but something about him made the air bend subtly at the edges. His suit was deep indigo, tailored flawlessly, its fabric catching light in waves like ink in water. A long, narrow scarf lay coiled at his neck, and a brooch shaped like a weeping sun gleamed from his lapel. His hair was tousled just enough to appear effortless, and his eyes—pale, glinting with amused calculation—never once left Ren.
He moved like a performer, every step smooth and stage-aware. Like he'd been waiting for this exact moment, in this exact room.
"I assume you're not with catering," he added, flashing a small, crooked smile.
Ren didn't answer.
Instead, he reached beneath his coat and drew his sword.
The man's eyes flicked to it with mild curiosity.
"Oh my," he said with a laugh. "That's a bold choice for a burglar. Rather classic of you."
Ren's grip tightened, his stance grounding—low, balanced, ready.
"Start talking," he said, voice low and edged.
A pause.
Then, to Ren's surprise, the man raised both hands—not in surrender, but in a gesture of playful deference. That same, almost bored smile remained stretched across his lips, like he was enjoying a private joke.
"Alright, alright," he said smoothly, taking a few slow steps forward, arms still raised. His movements were fluid, languid—each one measured like a stage actor on a grand opening night. "No need to posture like we're about to duel under moonlight. I assure you, I have no weapons—unless you count wit and charm, and those aren't lethal unless you're terribly insecure."
Ren didn't move. Didn't blink.
"Who are you?"
The man's smile twitched, just a shade sharper now.
"Elias," he said, inclining his head ever so slightly. "But people call me… Trickstarr. A pleasure, by the way."
Ren's express ion didn't change.
That name.
The crowd. The billboards. The girls taking selfies upstairs.
The essence.
"Were you responsible for what happened to Kaito?" Ren asked.
That hit home—if only for a blink.
Trickstarr's brows arched ever so slightly, then smoothed back into his practiced calm.
"Kaito?" he echoed, the name soft on his tongue like it meant nothing. "I'm afraid I don't know any Kaitos. Is that someone I should remember?"
Ren didn't flinch.
But the grip on his sword grew white-knuckled.
"Don't play games."
"Oh, but games are so much more fun than sermons," Trickstarr replied with a velvet chuckle, stepping to the side. His fingers trailed the edge of a velvet curtain like he was admiring fine silk. Then he stopped and flashed a grin—foxlike, hungry.
Out stepped Nakamura, gun raised, stance rigid with purpose. "Hands where I can see them!" he barked. "Nakamura—Senior Detective, Public Safety. You're under arrest!"
Trickstarr's hands rose smoothly, wrists relaxed, palms open. But this time, his expression shifted—eyebrows arched, lips parted just slightly. A tinge of mock fear curled in his voice.
"Don't shoot, please," he said, eyes wide, body shrinking back a step. "I surrender. You've got me, detective."
Ren's gaze snapped between the two men, breath catching.
Ren's gaze snapped to Nakamura. "He's been following me?" The thought struck like cold water, disorienting. "Since when…?"
Then, with the flick of a wrist, a card appeared in his hand—red-backed, its edges shimmering unnaturally. He waved it lazily.
Fwip—Thunk!
The card shot through the air, slicing wind like a razor. It struck Nakamura square in the chest.
"Wha—?!"
The detective's body seized as the card pulsed. With a magnetic crunch of invisible force, he was launched backward—slammed into the far wall and pinned like an insect to corkboard. His gun clattered to the floor.
Ren moved.
In an instant, he surged forward—a blur of instinct, fury, and desperation. Shinai raised, his body coiled like a spring snapping into lethal precision.
He was nearly within striking distance.
Then something shifted.
A flicker in his peripheral.
A glint.
A shadow.
A… hat?
His gaze snapped left. There, resting on a nearby side table, sat a wide-brimmed magician's hat. Its rim tilted upward just slightly.
Inside—
A void.
A gaping hollow of ink-black space, spiraling with slow, golden streaks. It churned, like a whirlpool spun in reverse, humming with energy that made his bones scream.
"No…"
The void moved.
Whumpf!
With a sickening rush of displaced air, the space above the hat tore open—ripped upward like a curtain—and something massive exploded from the rupture.
A monstrous avian horror erupted forth, shrieking.
Its wings stretched impossibly wide, blotting out the chandelier light. Jagged feathers like shards of black obsidian caught the glow, fracturing it into stabbing reflections. A gold-hooked beak gleamed in the dark. Its eyes—brilliant, twisted, and inhuman—shone with the same cruel luster as Trickstarr's smirk.
Ren barely had time to twist.
The creature screeched.
SKRAAA—!
One beat of its wings.
BOOM.
The force hit him like a hurricane.
He was flung backward—
CRASH!
He tore through a marble column, stone and plaster exploding around him like shattered glass. Sculpted molding, broken decor, and chunks of ceiling collapsed with him, burying his body under a rain of rubble and gold-trimmed ornamentation.
A heavy slab smashed his ribs. Another struck his sword, splintering it under the weight.
He gasped.
Then choked.
Blood slid from his nose, warm and bitter. His vision doubled, then tripled. Breaths came shallow, crushed. The ceiling above groaned. Dust rained like ash, stinging his eyes.
Above, the bird-beast perched atop a crumbling archway, its claws sinking into gold filigree with a shrill screech. It clicked its beak once. Slowly. Deliberately.
Then—shoes crunched on broken marble.
Trickstarr stepped into view once more, brushing dust from his coat with theatrical flair. His shadow stretched long across the wreckage. But something had changed.
The grin he wore now was thinner. Less showman, more predator. His eyes burned with something far too human.
He stopped at the edge of the rubble, just a step away from where Ren lay half-buried beneath broken pillars and pain.
"Ren Kurose."
Ren's fingers twitched beneath a fallen beam. Fire lanced through his arm as he managed to lift his head by a few centimeters, voice breaking as he spat:
"How do you—how the hell do you know my name?!"
The effort tore a cough from his throat. Blood came with it—thick, red, and bubbling.
Trickstarr tilted his head, amused.
"Oh, Ren," he said softly, like chastising a child who didn't know any better. "You think I only know your name?"
He crouched low, voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper.
"I know a lot more."
Ren's heart pounded. His body screamed. The pain blurred everything—but he clung to every word like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality.
Trickstarr's eyes gleamed with delight.
"Tell me—did you really think you found me? That you uncovered some grand little secret with your precious toy?"
Ren froze.
Trickstarr's grin widened.
"You didn't find me," he said. "I let you track me."
A groan cut through the silence.
Nakamura, still pinned to the far wall by the glowing card embedded in his chest, writhed. His arms strained, reaching, fumbling at the edges of the paper charm. His boots scraped against the floor, trying to gain leverage. One leg shifted free—
Fffft! Ffft! Ffft!
Three more cards flew without so much as a glance from Trickstarr. He kept his back to Nakamura, eyes still locked on Ren.
Each card hit with brutal precision.
One sliced into Nakamura's thigh. Another pinned his shoulder. The last buried itself in the side of his neck, just shy of the artery.
Shhk—THUMP.
The detective screamed—a wet, gurgling sound—and slumped, held upright only by the enchanted paper now embedded in his flesh. Blood dribbled down the cards, soaking his collar.
Ren's eyes widened. His mouth opened to retort—to scream—but Trickstarr raised a hand, fingers splayed like a conductor stilling an orchestra.
"Ah-ah," he tutted. "Don't bother shouting."
He twirled once on his heel, gesturing upward with theatrical flair toward the velvet-draped ceiling and glittering crystal strands that dangled like stars frozen mid-fall.
"This room?" he continued, smiling as if unveiling a magician's greatest trick, "It's sound-sealed. Absolutely zero noise transmission outside these walls."
He tapped the golden brooch on his lapel. It pulsed faintly.
"Zhuyuan Mandate tech. Beautiful stuff. You could scream until your lungs give out…" He leaned closer, whispering, "And not a soul would hear."
Ren's fists curled beneath the rubble. His breath turned shallow. Panic threaded through the pain now, cold and coiling.
Trickstarr began to pace again, slow steps echoing in the suffocating silence.
"It's so adorable that you tried to find me off the little clue your dying friend left behind." His tone was almost tender, like speaking to a child who tried to draw blood with a butter knife. "But sadly,"
Ren's eyes narrowed. Sweat dripped into the dust by his cheek.
"I wanted you to find me."
"Why…?" Ren croaked, the word barely escaping his battered lungs. "Why are you doing all this…?"
Trickstarr paused. The showman's mask slipped.
His eyes darkened.
"Why?" he echoed.
Then he smiled—but not the usual grin.
"Simple."
He straightened, brushing invisible lint from his shoulder. Then he began to circle the wreckage—around Ren, around the crumbled column like a lion around a broken antelope.
"My mission—my purpose—is to break you."
Ren froze. The air in his lungs turned to ash.
"I made your friend Kaito crack like glass," Trickstarr said, almost idly. "A gentle twist of guilt and regret, and snap. He folded beautifully."
He passed by the mangled remains of a pillar, boot tapping softly.
"Then there was the mother," he went on. "The one who lost her child. She begged for one more moment. I gave it to her as well as a means to take revenge."
He clicked his tongue. "And there were others."
He straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his vest. With every name he spoke, every story he offered like a magician revealing sleight-of-hand, the truth behind it all pulsed louder—like a heartbeat just under the skin of reality.
"They wept. They bled. They screamed."
He took one step closer.
"And every one of them…" His voice dipped, like the final pluck of a string. "Was for you, Ren Kurose."
But before he could move, Trickstarr stopped pacing.
His gaze drifted upward, toward the ceiling. Through it. Toward the tower's summit.
"Today," Trickstarr murmured, "is the main performance."
A choked, guttural noise cut him off.
"Gh—guh… G-Go to… hell…"
Trickstarr's brow twitched.
He turned.
Nakamura was still alive—barely. Blood dripped in rivers down his body. His limbs twitched in protest. But he looked at Trickstarr, eyes bloodshot, mouth twitching in defiance.
The illusionist sighed.
Then, with a snap of his fingers, another card materialized in his hand. This one black. Glowing red at the edges like searing coals.
"Persistent," he muttered, almost tired.
Fwip—THNK.
The card struck center mass—chest, straight into the sternum.
Nakamura's body jerked once.
Then hung limp.
Smoke rose from the wound. The smell of burnt flesh filled the room.