Two days had passed since the bloodbath at the terian Osakawa police station. The town was left in a state of shock and mourning. The tragedy had shattered the sense of security that once existed, and the streets felt haunted by the memories of the sin officers. News channels ran stories continuously, specuting on the motives and methods behind the massacre. The identity of Satsujin Sha, his horrific crimes, and the twisted web of deceit involving his clone had all become an urban legend of horror. But the real Satsujin Sha was far from finished.

  To evade the watchful eyes of w enforcement, Satsujin had assumed a new identity. Disguising himself as Yamamoto San, he donned a new appearance—his hair dyed a deep brown, his eyes obscured by tinted gsses, and his face sporting a freshly grown beard. His usual cold, piercing gaze was now masked by a calm and solemn demeanor. His attire was carefully chosen: a dark, simple suit that made him look like any other grieving retive.

  He arrived at the police station with a calcuted mixture of confidence and humility. As Yamamoto San, he presented himself as the brother of one of the victims—Kazuhiro Tada, the officer who had been believed to have killed Satsujin’s clone but who was, in fact, Satsujin’s most loyal accomplice. Satsujin’s eyes scanned the station, noting the strained faces of the officers still dealing with the trauma of recent events.

  He approached the front desk, where a young officer stood, weary and distracted. “Excuse me,” Satsujin began, his voice soft and tinged with sadness. “I’m here to see my brother’s body—Officer Kazuhiro Tada. I need to pay my st respects.”

  The officer looked up, his eyes narrowing as he tried to pce the unfamiliar face. “Your brother?” he repeated, his voice heavy with suspicion and exhaustion. “You’ll need to provide some identification.”

  With a slight nod, Satsujin—now Yamamoto—handed over a meticulously forged ID. The name read “Yamamoto San,” and the details matched the records they had for Kazuhiro’s family, a deception Satsujin had arranged well in advance. The officer scanned the ID carefully but, in his weariness and grief, found no reason to doubt its authenticity.

  After a moment, the officer sighed and nodded. “Alright, Yamamoto-san. I’m sorry for your loss. If you could follow me, I’ll take you to Tirozu Hospital where we’ve kept the body.”

  Satsujin, maintaining his fa?ade of quiet grief, nodded gratefully. “Thank you, officer. This means a lot to me.”

  The two made their way out of the station and into a police vehicle. Satsujin kept his face turned slightly away from the officer, his heart steady, his mind cold and focused. Every movement, every word was carefully pnned. This was another yer to his ongoing pn, another piece on his twisted chessboard.

  As they drove through the narrow streets of Osakawa, the city was bathed in a somber, grey light. Rain began to drizzle, blurring the windows and creating a mencholic atmosphere. The officer, not one for small talk, drove in silence, occasionally gncing at “Yamamoto” with a look of weary sympathy.

  When they reached Tirozu Hospital, the atmosphere grew even tenser. The hospital, still recovering from its own past chaos, seemed haunted by the shadow of the recent massacres. Satsujin noted the increased presence of guards and the tightened security measures. He had chosen his appearance and timing carefully, understanding that the police were still in shock and unlikely to scrutinize too deeply at such a moment.

  The officer guided Satsujin through the long, sterile corridors of the hospital, past patients and staff who were unaware of the monster walking among them. They finally reached the morgue, a cold, clinical room where the dead were stored until they could be cimed by their families.

  The officer opened the door to the morgue and led Satsujin inside. The air was heavy and cold, with the smell of antiseptic thick in the air. There, in the far corner, y the covered body of Kazuhiro Tada—or what everyone believed to be Kazuhiro. The officer gestured towards the body, stepping back to give "Yamamoto" a moment of privacy.

  Satsujin took a deep breath, his heart steady, and walked over to the gurney. He could feel the officer’s eyes on his back, but he remained composed. As he reached the body, he slowly lifted the white sheet that covered his accomplice’s lifeless form. The sight of Kazuhiro’s pale, unmoving face brought a fleeting moment of reflection. His expression was unreadable, but beneath the surface, his mind was calcuting his next move.

  The officer, watching from a respectful distance, could see the supposed brother's shoulders slightly tremble, assuming it was from grief. “Take all the time you need, Yamamoto-san,” he said quietly.

  Satsujin nodded without turning back. In truth, he was already pnning his escape from this charade. He was aware of the hospital’s exits, the yout, and the guard rotations—all information he had gathered meticulously over the past few days. He knew he had to keep moving, keep changing his disguise, keep staying one step ahead. His game was far from over, and his path of destruction had yet to reach its conclusion.

  As he gently covered Kazuhiro’s face again, a dark thought crept into his mind—a reminder that this was just another chapter in his twisted narrative. He whispered under his breath, “Rest now, my friend. Your part in this story is complete. Mine, however, is just beginning.”

  The officer cleared his throat, bringing Satsujin back to the present. “I’m sorry for your loss, Yamamoto-san,” he said again. “We’ll do everything we can to bring justice.”

  Satsujin turned, his face now a mask of sorrow, and nodded appreciatively. “Thank you, officer. My brother... he was a good man. I just hope his death wasn’t in vain.”

  The officer nodded solemnly, unaware of the true nature of the man standing before him. As they left the morgue and walked back into the hospital's dimly lit corridors, Satsujin knew that the next phase of his dark pn was already beginning to unfold.