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Another night, another case. Rich dame walks in, designer heels clicking on my office floor. Says her husband's missing. Yeah, right. In this business, missing usually means hiding. Or worse. But her check cleared, so here I am, tracking shadows again.

When the world sleeps.... I awaken. I am Narrator Nox. Keeper of stories.... the daylight fears to tell.

Look at this mess of evidence. Your brain tries to piece it together - case number RCM-42, traces of alcohol, cigarette butts everywhere. You're not even sure if you're investigating a crime or just staring at the remnants of your own breakdown anymore.

Miami es una ciudad llena de vida, pero yo prefiero observar desde las sombras. Mantener mi máscara es un trabajo de tiempo completo. Camino entre la gente, sonrío en el momento justo y sigo las reglas del juego. Nadie sospecha lo que realmente ocurre cuando cae la noche.

Look at them all, wrapped in their precious routines, their morning coffee and casual conversations. They're like perfectly wrapped presents, but I see through the paper. Inside, they're all just empty boxes waiting to be disposed of.

¡Fascinante! Este método es tan preciso, tan limpio. Ni una huella, ni una marca. ¿Cómo logra tal perfección? Es como si la muerte fuera un arte. No hay desorden, no hay caos. Solo la belleza de un trabajo bien ejecutado. Mi código estaría orgulloso.

Detective Morris studied the scene. Blood droplets. Fresh. Leading to the kitchen door. Thompson's wife sat quietly, hands folded. Too quietly. Her wedding ring missing. The neighbor's statement suddenly made more sense. Sometimes silence speaks volumes.

The convenience store robbery seemed straightforward, until detectives reviewed the footage. At 11:47 PM, a customer walks in normally, but their reflection in the window shows something else entirely. The cashier never saw it coming.