London, 12:15 AM
The fog was thick over the narrow alleys, and the rain had reduced to a light mist, as if the city was slowly dying. Caleb stood on the threshold of his house, staring at the metal key he had found under his pillow an hour ago, even though no one had entered the room.
The key was heavy, old-fashioned, engraved with a strange symbol: an open eye inside a broken clock. A symbol he had seen before in one of Crawford's theatrical notebooks... but what did it mean now?
Before he could think further, a faint knock was heard on the back door of the house.
He opened the door cautiously, and there stood a strange young man under the rain, his gray eyes like smoke, his features oddly familiar. He wore a long coat, and his hat covered half his face.
> "My name is Viktor… and I am Crawford's son."
He said it in a monotone, as if reciting a line from a play.
---
The three of them sat in the living room: Caleb, Anna, and Douglas, while Viktor sat across from them, gazing at them with a rare coldness.
> Caleb: "Crawford didn't have any children. He was infertile according to the medical records."
> Viktor (with a cold smile): "Yes… his body was infertile. But his thoughts? No. I am his son, from an unpublished manuscript. From a story that has yet to be written."
He threw an old manuscript onto the table, its pages covered in Crawford's distinctive handwriting, but the titles were shocking.
"Scene 9: The Murder of Lord Princeton"
"Scene 10: The Rending of Douglas's Soul"
"The Final Scene: The Fall of Caleb Morgan"
> Anna (in a trembling voice): "These are names of the living… they haven't been killed yet."
> Douglas: "This is absurd. A prophetic play? Impossible."
Viktor remained silent, then pulled out an old photograph from his pocket, dated 1872, showing a young man who looked exactly like him, standing beside Crawford.
> "He used to tell me I would be his only actor... the one who didn't need training."
---
The Key of Death
Viktor handed Caleb the metal key and said:
> "This opens a room in the Great Theater of Acting, where all the crimes begin."
> Caleb: "And why are you giving it to me?"
> Viktor: "Because you're next. But you deserve a chance to choose... in this play, even death has the freedom of expression."
Caleb hesitated, then asked:
> "How do you know about the crimes?"
Viktor smiled mockingly, and moved so close that his face was only an inch away from Caleb's.
> "I don't predict… I read. Every crime to come has already been written. Crawford never left the theater… he wrote it on the backs of his victims before they were even born."
---
In a moment of silence, Douglas lit his pipe and muttered:
> "Do you think the criminals choose their victims… or is it the victims who choose their fate?"
Viktor replied, staring at the candle flame:
> "The right question is: who writes the script? Sometimes the victim is the director... without even knowing."
---
The Shadow Room
They all headed to the location Viktor pointed out: an old abandoned building with a rusted sign reading "The Great Theater of Acting."
Caleb used the key… and the sound of the lock opening felt like time itself was opening with it.
They entered a dusty theater hall, the walls filled with hanging masks, some laughing, some crying, but all of them without eyes.
In the center of the stage… an empty chair, with a notebook beneath it.
Caleb opened it… and the first page held only one title:
> "The Final Act – The Death of the Killer Who Was Never Born."
Anna asked:
> "Does this mean Viktor will die?"
But Viktor had vanished.
---
The Voice of the Mirror
Suddenly, the only mirror in the theater began to shake, and a phrase was written on it in blood:
> "The next scene is being written now… beware the lighting."
All the candles went out,
except for one… above the chair.
Then Viktor's voice was heard from the darkness:
> "Heroes don't die… they are just re-enacted."