That would make the Investigator’s trick feel redundant, a flourish on a dull blade.

Unless the Investigator can make the serial killer believe the other side is the killer, a cracked mirror that shakes their sense of self.

So what can do that, a question like a hook in deep water?

Kill—like a stone dropped into still water.

Yes, kill, a scar drawn across the night.

Kill one, and leave a thin thread pointing at yourself, like a hair on a spotless floor.

When the serial killer sees it, their identity wavers like fog in wind.

The Investigator can’t kill, but their companions can, knives hidden in sleeves.

The rules bind the role, not the whole side; they never said no one could kill before the first body.

Then the Investigator can leave the bedroom, the Imagerecording Stone watching the door like an eye.

While suspecting themselves as the killer, they let a companion kill, a shadow moving for them.

The real killer then doubts their own mask, paint peeling under rain.

“But the real serial killer will kill too. If the Investigator picks this move, daylight may bring two corpses, twin shadows on the street.”

Lucimia mutters, her voice a thin thread under the door.

“If two bodies show up, can we pin it on the Investigator running this play, like footprints that double back?”

But the ploy carries barbs, a nettle under silk.

An Investigator who mistakes themselves for the killer sees the other side kill, and both “killers” flicker like candles.

It freezes them into caution, two cats circling with claws sheathed.

But when the three days end, blood must fall, rain finally breaking.

With both sides doubting themselves and the clock grinding down, someone gambles—kills one—to see loss or win, a coin tossed in ink.

And that way, the true killer wins again, a blade finding its sheath.

Unless the Investigator confirms their identity within three days, knowing it’s a feint, a mask tied tight.

Hoo— Lucimia draws a deep breath, then lets it out slowly, warmth seeping like steam from a cup.

She glances at the time—4:30, a thin blade of dawn.

She knows stepping out now is wrong, walking into fog with no lantern.

So since waking, she sits in the chair, dissecting the Duel like a chessboard.

She models every path in her mind, scenes flickering like lanterns under wind.

Sometimes she slips into roles, like changing robes in a dark hall.

If she’s the Investigator, what would she do?

If she’s the killer, what then, a knife hidden under lace?

“Strange. Before the memory wipe, I’d found a tactic; after, it’s gone like ink washed off silk.”

Lucimia looks down at her pajamas, then at the Imagerecording Stone’s frame, eyes sliding between mirrors.

There’s one puzzle in the Stone’s footage: why did Rexi and she return one after the other, the tide ebbing and flowing.

Rexi returned at 23:00, a line of night on the clock.

She came back at two a.m., a moth late to the lamp.

A gap of three hours yawns like a ravine—what happened inside it?

Did she and Rexi split up, swallows taking separate flight?

What did they do apart, footsteps lost in fresh snow?

Did they plant Imagerecording Stones elsewhere, seeds tucked under sand?

What if someone found one, stole it, and sold it, a magpie’s glitter.

The rules say the Disguise Power only works on oneself, paint that sticks to skin.

You can’t dress an Imagerecording Stone as anything else, no mask fits stone.

If not that, then what did they do, hands returning too clean?

Lucimia can’t see through it, mist filmed on glass.

She has a baseline read on the board, a sketch before ink.

She needs daylight and the bodies’ state to judge the next steps, a verdict carved at dawn.

“There’s still time. Think—what should I do under each identity,” she whispers, like counting beads.

Lucimia rubs her temples; dizziness sways like reeds—too little sleep.

She slips a cup of hot tea from her Storage Ring and sips, a small river of heat flowing inside.

Warmth lifts her spirit like a lantern catching, eyes clearing.

Lucimia dives back into thought, a fish gliding under ice.

If she’s the Investigator yet steps out, her likely play is to make herself believe she’s the killer, a mask she puts on to unsettle others.

That would shake the other side’s identity like loose tiles on a roof.

By dawn, two corpses are likely—her act nudges them off-balance, a seesaw tilted.

If she’s the killer yet still goes out, she’s using the Imagerecording Stone to confirm herself, a stamp on wax.

The body’s message will point to her target like an arrow lodged in bark.

Then!

Here comes the key—like a bell struck in a quiet hall.

If Anliena chooses to confirm she’s the Investigator, the corpses come in two patterns, lots cast on the floor.

One body: Anliena walks the standard road, footprints straight in snow.

Two bodies: while confirming, Anliena lets a partner kill, a hidden hand.

She aims to make Lucimia—the serial killer—doubt herself, a slipping mask.

She’ll use her confirmed identity to act next, a seal granting passage.

She must also consider she might be the killer acting the Investigator, a fox in a robe, so she may double-check.

If Anliena refuses to confirm and makes herself believe she’s the killer, two corpses are just as likely, twin moons over water.

Lucimia judges that if the Investigator masquerades as the killer and leaves clues on the body, they’re likely false—bait to muddle the true killer, fireflies in smoke.

“Everything waits for daylight to declare,” she says, a verdict waiting for dawn’s ink.

Lucimia takes another sip of tea and checks the time, eyes on a sundial.

5:30, a pale slice of morning.

Daylight is still a walk away; Lucimia decides to snatch a nap, a bird tucking its head under wing.

She burrows back into blankets and shuts her eyes, rest folding over her like silk.

—

Bang, bang, bang.

After an unknown stretch, the guest room door rattles under knocks, waking Lucimia and Rexi like birds startled from a branch.

Lucimia rises, brow tight; the knocking carries a bad omen, thunder rumbling upstream.

Beside her, Rexi murmurs, her voice cotton-soft. “Mmm… who is it…”

Lucimia looks at Rexi; she rubs her eyes and looks back, two kittens blinking in dim light.

Next moment, Rexi freezes, a deer caught in brush. “Uh, Lucimia, since when do you sleep in pajamas?”

“Look at yourself,” Lucimia says, a mirror held up.

Rexi looks down and jolts, a sparrow startled by its own reflection. “Huh? Why am I in pajamas too? I don’t remember owning this set—where’d I get the money?”

Lucimia frowns; Rexi’s words drop a clue, a pebble in a pond.

These pajamas were bought yesterday, fresh silk off the stall.

As for Lucimia’s set—she isn’t sure. Her Storage Ring holds a heap of things, and she can’t recall if this was among them, a bead lost in a box.

Bang, bang, bang.

The knocking persists; a man’s voice filters through the wood, smoke through lattice. “Is the Investigator in? I’m Luwens, deputy captain of the enforcement team.”

Luwens—his name falls like a coin on stone.

Lucimia remembers him, the one who handed her the file. She’d told him where she was staying, chalk on a board.

What does he want, a shadow at the door?

Lucimia checks the clock—8:00, a square of morning.

She doesn’t open at once; she calls, “Luwens, what’s the matter,” a question like a raised lantern.

If it’s about the missing husband case, she has no progress, empty nets after a night’s cast.

“Here’s the thing: we might need your help,” he says, breath tight as frost. “A report came in before dawn—someone’s dead.”

“We spent hours and got nowhere, fog thick as wool, so we came this morning to ask you.”