The Mask

Chapter 21: The Final Watcher

The rain fell gently on the small crowd gathered in the cemetery, a soft drizzle that seemed to seep into the very ground. The world was awash in shades of gray, the sky low and heavy, as though the heavens themselves mourned the passing of Detective Samuel Jameson. His casket, draped with the flag of the Millbrook Police Department, lay ready to be lowered into the ground. It was a modest funeral, a quiet affair befitting a man whose life had been consumed by shadows and secrets.

Detective Jameson had been a man driven by justice, but more than that, by the need to understand. That need had led him down dark paths—paths that ultimately consumed him. His mother stood at the front, her frail hands clutching a white handkerchief as she dabbed at her swollen eyes. Beside her, Captain Richards stood stiffly, his hat clasped in his hands, his jaw clenched tightly as the minister's voice echoed in the cold air.

The few who attended the funeral remained silent. Jameson had no family left save for his aging mother and a few distant relatives. His colleagues from the force were scattered among the crowd, their faces grim with the weight of the knowledge that Jameson had died pursuing a monster they had failed to catch.

They had all heard the official story: Jameson had his throat slit while confronting the masked killer. But the truth, the dark truth, lay buried with him—along with the many secrets he had unearthed in his final days. The masked man remained at large, and though the press had been told the case was closed, those closest to Jameson knew the real killer was still out there, playing his game.

As the coffin was lowered into the ground, the mourners bowed their heads. The minister's final words—hollow comforts about eternal peace and rest—were drowned out by the muffled sobs of Jameson's mother. Captain Richards stepped forward and placed a single white rose on the coffin, his hand trembling slightly as he did so. His eyes, red-rimmed from exhaustion and grief, stared at the wood as though he could bring Jameson back to life, to solve one last mystery.

Jameson had been his best detective, but more than that—he had been a friend. A man who had sacrificed everything in pursuit of justice, a man who had always refused to give up, even when the odds were insurmountable. And now, that fight is over. The game had claimed him.

But as the funeral attendees began to leave, one by one, paying their last respects, someone else was watching. High above, perched on the ledge of a nearby building, a lone figure stood silhouetted against the dim, rainy skyline. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, as though he were observing a play unfold below him. The masked man—tall, lean, and wrapped in a black coat—looked down at the scene through the porcelain mask that had come to symbolize death and chaos in Millbrook.

The masked man scoffed, "Aw, dead already?"

"Supposedly." Spoke a different man.

"Well wanna go to the next town?" The masked man said while holding his hand out helping out the man laying down.

"That's all we can do." Spoke the other man, reaching up for the masked man's hand.

"By the way. Take the fucking mask off, that's my thing Jameson."

"Jeez sorry, I thought I'd wanna play the part if were a team now." Jameson spoke.