Prey and Predator [Ranpo x Reader] + Bonus ✓

3. The Deformed Necrophile

'He's not alive, is he? The Poet Killer I mean?'

My father looked at me, blinked his eyes confusedly and tilted his head while furrowing his eyebrows. 'It happened years ago, I haven't got a clue on how they dealt with him. He's either been given the death penalty or released after serving his time. Why?'

I told him about the letter I received; how it came by the same time the crime had been reported in the news, how the middle-schooler (as the girl called him) had predicted of such a letter being received, and the book also. 'What if I'm a target? You said the next victim would be the one who sent the letter to the police; do I tell the police or stay put? Do I have a choice? Do I have a chance?'

'It must be a coincidence, darling. The killer must have passed long ago, it shouldn't be him.'

'You were a detective. What do you think of the situation? What's your take?'

He choked on his breath and reached for the glass of water I had placed beside his plate with lunch. Usually, this would be over within just a few seconds, but on that particular occasion, it lasted a long while, long enough to have mother rush in the room and attend to his state. She asked me to leave to avoid any stress on my person. Any guilt, she said. Like she had felt once.

Running around in circles in my head, I pondered whether I should inform the police on it or simply leave things as they were, simply assuming this was a joke of dark humour and done to provoke me.

'Dad's not worked for longer than you've lived for, so the "Poet Killer" is probably gone.' my brother responded as I let him know of my dilemma. 'He was delusional for some time because of his drugs, it's possible that "Poet Killer" never existed, anyway.'

'Why'd you speak so foul of him? He's still your dad.'

'Don't question my reasons.'

Then he refused to speak any further. At the end (and without letting him know), I paid a visit to the police station and requested to submit the letter which may be of relevance to the supposed suicide case reported the previous day on the news; I was immediately taken into the interrogation room when a chief officer was told of my presence.

I felt as though I was the culprit; the room was small, squared and poorly lit, possessing only a table with chairs in opposites ends in the middle. I was told to sit on one of the chairs and wait for an officer to come in, one who'd supposedly only come by "for a chat". I've never dreaded "a chat" more in my life more than I did then.

A male who seemed to be in his thirties, with an unkempt stubble on his chin which may have well reflected the amount of time he spent home grooming as a result of perhaps working too much. There were subtle bags under his eyes, those that mark the face of someone who seldom sleeps. His cheeks were a faint rosy, which I could assume to have been his temperature tampered with from the hot coffee cup he held in his hand. He held two, in fact, one which he offered me by having it placed on the table between us.

'[Y/N] [L/N], is it? It's a pleasure,' he bowed his head slightly, and I returned the gesture. 'Drink up, I promise there's no other substance in there other than a little water with crushed coffee beans and milk.'

'I'm not very thirsty,' I whispered back, holding a hand out to reject the cup as he shifted this towards me. 'I feel uncomfortable. I don't want small talk.'

He seemed to understand my mood and take on the scene, and did not beat around the bush; he asked for all details on my whereabouts yesterday, each question receiving the most detailed of replies I could provide, but he did not seem to suspect me of conducting the misdeed.

'Am I thought to be innocent?'

I received a reassuring smile as a reply. 'You've never been a suspect from the moment you walked in. We've already caught the culprit.'