Jin Ishida sat by the dim light of a candle in his small hotel room, the distant echoes of London’s restless streets faint beneath the howling wind. The paper with the cryptic message lay on the wooden desk before him, its words like a riddle etched into his mind.

  "Find the man who has no face."

  A knock at the door broke his focus. Jin moved silently, years of discipline guiding his steps. He opened the door to find a young boy—no older than twelve—dressed in ragged clothes, his face pale from the cold.

  "Message for you, sir," the boy said, extending a sealed envelope with trembling fingers.

  Jin took the letter, pressing a coin into the boy’s palm without a word. As the door closed behind him, he examined the envelope. No seal. No name. Just a single word scrawled across the front: "Midnight."

  Without hesitation, he broke the seal. The letter inside was brief:

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  "Blackwood Cemetery. Midnight."

  Jin's fingers tightened around the paper. Whoever sent this knew about the case—and wanted him to follow. But was it a lead, or a trap?

  The wind outside howled louder as he donned his coat, tucking his revolver discreetly beneath it. In this city, trust was a rare commodity. He had no intention of walking into the unknown unprepared.

  ---

  By the time he arrived at Blackwood Cemetery, the fog was thicker—an ocean of shadows swallowing the graves. Time seemed suspended, every step muffled by the damp earth beneath his boots.

  A lone figure stood by an ancient tombstone. Cloaked in black, the figure’s face was hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Jin approached with caution, every sense sharpened.

  "You came," the figure said, voice smooth but devoid of warmth. "Good. Perhaps you are worthy of knowing the truth."

  Jin’s hand hovered near his coat pocket. "Who are you?"

  The figure chuckled softly. "A seeker, like you. But beware, Mr. Ishida—this city is not what it seems. The man without a face… he is no myth."

  Jin’s eyes narrowed. "And how do I find him?"

  The stranger lifted a gloved hand, pointing toward the city’s heart. "Begin where the fog never lifts—Whitechapel. But tread carefully. The illusion protects him, and those who seek the truth rarely survive to speak it."

  Before Jin could respond, the figure melted into the fog, leaving only the faint echo of their final words:

  "The truth is a mask, and masks always hide something deeper."

  Jin stood in the graveyard, the weight of those words settling heavy on his mind. If Whitechapel held the next piece of the puzzle, then that’s where he would go.

  And whatever truth awaited him—he would find it.