It was 10:20 PM.
The rain had been falling all day, and in the evening, it had intensified even more.
Renji, transformed into Ghostface, stood at the entrance of a narrow alley next to a convenience store, his back pressed against the damp wall.
Rainwater splashed at his feet, and the alley was filled with the smell of dampness mixed with garbage and rust.
He had chosen this spot deliberately.
Turning slightly right from this alley, through the bare branches of two roadside trees across the street, he could see a white Toyota Crown parked at the end of the street.
White Toyota Crowns and similar cars don’t have police light bars on the roof, but they do have a portable police beacon mounted inside the windshield, and badges attached to the side doors.
The car windows weren’t fully closed, with gaps of about seven to eight centimeters on each side.
Renji could see two people sitting inside.
One of them was leaning back in the driver’s seat, his mouth slightly open and his head bobbing, as if fishing.
The other was leaning back in the passenger seat, head tilted to the side, eyes closed, chest slowly rising and falling.
The engine was off, and the police beacon was off too.
The symbolic meaning of this police car parked here far outweighed its practical purpose.
The police car had been there since 9:40, and it was now almost 10:20.
It hadn’t moved at all, and the people inside hadn’t gotten out or moved.
At first, they at least weren’t sleeping, but then they just fell asleep.
Renji’s judgment remained the same as during the day: the police didn’t seem to care much about “Yamato.” However, Renji hadn’t expected the police to be so formal, not even putting on a show.
Renji stepped out of the darkness.
He didn’t try to deliberately hide his footsteps.
In his Ghostface form, his steps were very light, and under the cover of rain, he made almost no sound.
Renji walked slowly toward the police car, his entire figure in the night rain reflecting a moving shadow.
The rain fell on his mask, running down its pale curves and gathering into two thin lines around the eye sockets, like two cold tears or crocodile tears — not from pity.
Renji walked straight up to the passenger side.
Through the open window, he could clearly see the face of the young police officer, who was fast asleep.
He looked about twenty-three or twenty-four years old, having graduated from the police academy less than two years ago.
There was still a band-aid on his chin from shaving, the collar of his police uniform was unbuttoned, and there was a dark patch of rain on his collarbone.
His head bobbed up and down, as if he was fishing.
The older man in the driver’s seat, about forty years old, was wearing a police uniform stretched tight over his belly.
His head rested on the headrest, his hands folded on his stomach, and his ten fingers rose and fell slightly in rhythm with his breathing.
His knuckles were short and thick, but his nails were neatly trimmed.
With each exhale, he snored.
Renji stared at him through the car window.
If the young police officer woke up at this moment, he would surely flinch.
The raindrops drummed clearly on the metal roof of the police car, drowning out all other barely audible sounds, like a requiem performed by Death.
Renji slowly turned his wrist, holding the dagger beneath his glove.
The blade was barely visible in the rainy night, in the darkness even deeper than the rainy night itself.
The young police officer in the passenger seat shifted — not because he was about to wake up, but because he was unconsciously changing positions in his sleep.
His head tilted the other way, and his chin almost touched his shoulder.
Renji stepped forward and suddenly reached his hand through the open car window.
The first strike landed precisely on the throat, followed by the second and third strikes to the left side of the chest and the lower left ribs.
Each strike met virtually no resistance; every time the dagger was pulled out, blood gushed from the wound.
Blood poured from the wound, and spray from the torn artery splattered onto the car window, slightly staining the glove on Renji’s knife hand.
The precision of the movements was comparable to that of a preschooler who can accurately and quickly stuff something inedible into their mouth before their parents notice.
The moment the knife pierced the young officer’s body, his eyes flew wide open; from the intense pain, his pupils sharply contracted, and his lips parted as if he wanted to scream.
But blood rushed to his throat faster than he could utter a word, and his mouth opened and closed silently twice, like a fish thrown onto the shore, making a few indistinct gurgling sounds.
It wasn’t a cry for help, but a desperate attempt to breathe, the gurgling sound of air passing through blood and foam.
Then the light in his eyes began to fade, and the expression of terror started to dissipate.
In the last few seconds before losing consciousness, he clumsily groped with his right hand toward his side, until he finally touched his partner’s hand, then began to pull at it.
This was the last struggle of a person before death, like a drowning person grasping for the last piece of driftwood.
But the officer in the driver’s seat, pulled a few times, was too lazy to even open his eyes.
He moved his shoulder, shook off the hand, and muttered something indistinctly.
“Don’t make a sound.”
Then he tilted his head the other way and fell back asleep.
Renji watched this scene, and his expression beneath the mask remained unchanged.
He didn’t laugh.
Laughing at any action presupposes a certain expectation, and he never had any expectations of the Japanese police, so naturally, he felt neither disappointment nor amusement.
Renji walked around the front of the car, from the passenger seat to the driver’s side, each step like the movement of a second hand on a clock.
The last thing the police officer saw before he died was the killer about to attack his superior.
Renji approached the driver’s side window, leaned slightly, and slipped his right hand through the open window.
His glove was slightly cold from the rain.
For the second officer, Renji didn’t use the dagger.
Renji’s outstretched hand precisely grasped the officer’s throat, like gripping the edge of a cup.
Then Renji began to apply pressure, and the laryngeal cartilage collapsed under the pressure, simultaneously blocking the blood flow on both sides of the carotid artery.
He was immediately seized by a feeling of suffocation, pulled from his sweet slumber.
The officer’s eyes snapped open.
The first thing he saw was his partner, covered in blood in the passenger seat, with blood still streaming down the windshield.
Then he turned and saw the pale mask with its eye sockets facing his eyes.
Rainwater ran down the curved surface of the mask, reflecting a wet glow under the streetlights.
From behind the mask came a voice, deep and hoarse, like two rough stones grinding against each other.
The officer, whose throat was being squeezed, realized he was in serious trouble; the person in front of him was probably the same killer the police department had been looking for.
“Good evening.”