RunAway

Monday

When we're young, society tells us that heroes are good, and villains are evil. But what if the only real difference, is the person who's telling that story?

In the world of Inketer, it's a well known fact that almost ninety-five percent of all criminals are either caught or killed in the course of their remaining lifetimes. But, unfortunately, that's an average value. Some cities have an almost perfect criminal prosecution rate, whilst others are verging on far lower overall percentages. However, this story does not exist in one of the latter mentioned cities, instead we begin in a place with an average rate of ninety one percent. Not too low, but certainly nothing to celebrate. 

Ottax, the capital city of the Mif'wa country, has an artic yet lively environment. One which is constantly filled with laughter and joyous smiles. Mif'was are naturally helpful creatures, but their attitudes can soon change when it comes to their surroundings. Alas, our focus does not fall to the sentient species of this world, instead we turn our attention to the penthouse apartment of a well known detective, a man who had been found dead only a few minutes before half past nine.  

"I don't get it," a young detective muttered. "What was their motive to do this? Doesn't 'A' usually kill because of their victim's previous crimes?" He inquired, turning slowly towards the tall, black-haired male who stood beside him, taking his eyes away from the cruel and graphic scene.

"He must have gotten too close," The man grumbled with no real emotion, completely ignoring the younger detective who hesitantly turned away. The two of them looked around at the expensive top-floor apartment, which was now littered with forensic officials taking pictures of every item, floor and wall. The man who lived there was clearly rich in many ways, as his personal choice in liquor was delicately refined. However, in the centre of the living-room, laying limp across a broken coffee table, was the latter mentioned victim of this so-called crime. 

Jake Diver had been a senior detective who was looking into the recent murders which had been done by a very reclusive killer, known only by the letter 'A'. 

The killer often left clues and twisted messages; messages which were always at the chosen crime scene, painted on the walls with nothing other than the victim's own blood. By inspection, one could tell that the blood had been drawn out of the victim's neck, before being plastered across a wall in a sick display of hatred and art. The killer's choice of paintbrush was unknown, but a syringe had always been left at each and every crime scene. Detectives could only assume that the syringe was used to take the blood. 

Standing silently within the room, the case's new lead detective, Luke Night, sighed and stepped away from the gossip and the amateurs. He wandered aimlessly around the room, pushing his hair out his eyes many times over until finally he approached the wall which reeked with the stench of death. Eventually, he glanced up at the words which the killer had graciously left behind. 

'Disappointing, And i told you Nothing but To stop looking for me, Every single time.'

Luke groaned as he stared forwards at the fanciful writing which had already begun to stain the pristine white walls. Thankfully, the rotting smell had barely ever come to bother him. After so many low level cases, he was pretty much numb to every aspect of violence and death. He was a human in a monstrous world after all; he had no time to mess around and smell the daisies. 

Jake Diver's death had been announced earlier that morning, and Luke had stepped up almost immediately in order to become the new lead detective. Unsurprisingly, he got the job - mainly because he was the only one still insane enough to work on it. Everyone else was far too timid, especially since Jake's death had only occurred a single week after he began investigating the murders.