Chapter 23: The Token and the Plan

“My word, that is truly spectacular.”

Clint let out a soft, mocking chuckle.

“What did you say, you punk?!”

“You managed to completely overlook a wanted fugitive right under your noses, utterly failed to apprehend him when a direct report was handed to you on a silver platter, and to top it all off, you even let one of your own get abducted,” Clint remarked with a relaxed grin, clapping his hands in a slow, patronizing rhythm. “If I were in your shoes, I’d be entirely too ashamed to lift my head in public. Yet, here you are, desperately attempting to frame an innocent citizen to save face. This level of mental gymnastics is honestly nothing short of marvelous.”

The middle-aged officer’s face flushed so violently it looked ready to burst. He glared at Clint, his breath hitching with rage, before his features contorted into a deeply malicious, petty sneer.

“You’re that outsider detective fellow, aren’t you? Let’s see if you can keep that arrogant mouth running quite so smoothly once we get down to the precinct.”

The burly officer reached into his belt, preparing to extract a pair of handcuffs. Having utterly lost the battle of wits, he was resorting to a brute display of systemic authority to force compliance. Shocked by the escalation, Simon instantly stepped forward to intervene.

“If you persist with this unlawful behavior, I will immediately summon my attorney.”

Did he actually possess a personal attorney? He almost certainly did. Regardless of the factual reality, he resolved to throw the threat out first and handle the logistics later.

“An attorney?”

The middle-aged officer visibly hesitated. Had his target been Clint alone—an outsider lacking any local roots or visible wealth—he wouldn’t have thought twice. However, the moment a wealthy, lifelong resident of the Grayan lineage injected himself into the equation, the legal ramifications threatened to become exceptionally messy. A stark reminder of Simon’s high social standing, which his blinding rage had briefly blocked out, crashed back into his mind. Damn it. Yet, he had already drawn the handcuffs; retreating now would inflict a devastating blow to his fragile pride. As the officer stood frozen in an agonizing state of indecision, a fellow officer positioned further down the line called out to him.

“Hey! Get over here for a second!”

It was the perfect, face-saving excuse to disengage.

“We’ll settle this later,” the middle-aged officer snarled, tossing a final, high-handed threat over his shoulder as he turned on his heel. He maintained his overbearing, arrogant posture until the very last second. Watching his retreating back, Simon let out a long, thoroughly disgusted groan.

“It appears there is nothing more for us to accomplish here. Let’s head back.”

Clint’s assessment was entirely accurate. They had successfully extracted all the actionable intelligence available at the scene. They resolved to loop back to the agency to regroup. Simon nodded in agreement, and the two men walked a safe distance down the street to return to their waiting vehicle. Clint smoothly opened the carriage door, climbed inside after Simon, and immediately handed him a fresh glass of water. Though he was performing these gentle, attentive actions entirely out of instinct, Clint remained completely oblivious to his own behavior.

‘Being this naturally sweet should honestly be a crime.’

Simon could do nothing but clutch his throbbing chest, his heart reacting wildly to Clint’s every microscopic movement.

“The situation is developing in a profoundly troublesome direction,” Clint remarked, his expression turning grave.

Simon nodded fiercely in agreement. Up until this point, he had naively believed that lodging a formal report with the authorities would cleanly resolve the entire crisis. He had never imagined, even in his wildest nightmares, that the police force would lose Peter Matterson so pathetically, let alone allow one of their own officers to be violently abducted in the process. He was entirely torn between cursing the sheer incompetence of the local authorities and marveling at the terrifying proficiency of the killer’s tactics.

“Do you believe that young officer is still alive?”

Setting aside his profound exasperation with the department’s ineptitude, Simon couldn’t help but nurse a deep, gnawing worry for the missing rookie. In the timeline before his regression, an incident involving the abduction of a police officer had never occurred.

‘My direct interference has fundamentally altered the trajectory of events.’

The realization that the rookie officer would never have been captured had he not meddled in the first place triggered a crushing wave of internal guilt.

“He should be perfectly fine for the time being. If the killer’s sole intent was execution, he would have cleanly disposed of the body right there inside the residence.”

“Then why on earth would he go through the immense trouble of abducting a police officer?”

“Hmm. He must be leveraging him for a specific objective. Transporting a fully grown, healthy male while actively evading a manhunt is an exceptionally grueling task. He wouldn’t shoulder that burden without a calculated reason.”

“I suppose that makes sense.”

To consciously choose to drag a heavy, dynamic burden along while executing a desperate escape implied a deeply hidden motive. What that motive could possibly be, however, was entirely beyond the scope of Simon’s imagination.

“Regardless, the monster couldn’t have traveled very far.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Attempting to navigate the terrain before dawn while saddled with such a massive piece of baggage severely limits his operational radius… He is almost certainly still hiding within the confines of this town. Whether that reality constitutes a blessing or a curse remains to be seen.”

It was exactly as Clint described. Simon found himself utterly paralyzed, unable to deduce whether it was safer for the community if the killer remained trapped within the borders or if he successfully slipped away into the wind.

Simon turned his gaze toward the window, quietly observing the passing streets. The town was practically bursting with vibrant, electric energy. Banners adorned with brilliant blue leaf patterns fluttered from every storefront and lamppost. Right on cue, he recalled that tomorrow marked the official commencement of Saint Kenyon’s Day. True to its reputation as the grand celebration welcoming the arrival of summer, the entire community was already vibrating with festive anticipation a full day in advance.

‘And yet, somewhere amidst this joyful crowd, Peter Matterson is actively lurking.’

The surrounding landscape projected a serene, flawless aura of peace that made the existence of a savage serial killer hiding within its folds feel entirely illusory. Prior to his regression, Simon would have spent this very day navigating the exact same blissful ignorance as the citizens outside. Now, however, that tranquil scenery only provoked a profound sense of anxiety. Having peered behind the curtain and unearthed the horrific reality operating beneath the surface of this peaceful day, he could never look at the world the same way again.

“Do you believe the festival will proceed as scheduled tomorrow?” Simon inquired softly.

“Almost certainly. The authorities are aggressively suppressing any leaks regarding the incident. What are your plans, Mr. Grayan?”

“You mean… concerning the masquerade ball?” Simon let out a soft, weary sigh.

Tomorrow night was the highly anticipated masquerade ball—the very event he had been looking forward to for so long. The final grand party of his remaining lifespan. Yet, under the shadow of the current crisis, he found himself entirely devoid of the spirit to celebrate a festival.

“I can’t help but feel that hunting down a serial killer is a far more pressing utilization of my time.”

As one of the solitary individuals possessing absolute knowledge regarding Peter Matterson’s true identity, he felt a profound, heavy sense of personal responsibility. If he had only been a fraction quicker to connect the dots, they might have apprehended the monster cleanly, and that young officer would still be safe. The mere thought of attending a lavish party while a human life hung precariously in the balance filled him with an intense wave of guilt. Yet, whether he chose to attend or stay confined to his room, his heart was destined to remain agonizingly heavy.

His mind still locked in a chaotic state of conflict, the carriage finally arrived back at Clint’s agency. To their immense surprise, an unexpected visitor was already waiting outside the office door.

“Delivery for the masquerade costumes.”

It was a courier from the boutique. The outfits they had formally requested for rental days ago had finally arrived. The courier carefully deposited the garments across the surface of the agency’s sofa. Simon stepped forward, his fingers lightly tracing the fabric of his costume. When he had first selected this attire, his heart had been bursting with pure excitement; how had everything managed to devolve into such a tragic mess? Beyond a deep sense of melancholy, a profound wave of sheer injustice washed over him.

This was entirely the fault of that wretched monster, Peter Matterson, combined with the staggering incompetence of the local police!

“I believe you were issued a formal rental token? Could you kindly present it for verification?” the courier requested.

Clint reached into his desk drawer, extracting a small wooden token and presenting it to the deliveryman. Simon’s eyes casually tracked the movement, anchoring firmly onto the object. Wait a moment…

“Everything is perfectly in order. Please ensure the garments are returned to the boutique within one week.”

The courier offered a polite bow and vacated the premises. Simon immediately bolted toward Clint’s side.

“That wooden token. Let me see it for a brief moment.”

“This?” Clint handed the piece of wood directly to him.

“I have definitely encountered this exact design before…”

The physical texture of the token resting against his palm provoked a deeply familiar sensation. He had held something structurally identical to this just yesterday afternoon. Ah! The memory clicked into place with absolute clarity.

“I discovered something virtually identical to this inside that monster’s house!”

He rapidly detailed the sequence of events from the previous day—how his foot had struck an object on the floorboards, prompting him to pick it up, and how Peter’s sudden arrival had sent him into such a blind panic that he had instinctively shoved it deep into his pocket without a second thought.

“Peter Matterson possessed one of these?”

“What exactly is the functional purpose of this token?”

“When we selected our outfits at the boutique, this was the standard receipt issued to us.”

Because Clint had handled the administrative logistics during their visit, Simon hadn’t paid much attention to the underlying system. The boutique utilized a highly specific protocol for renting masquerade attire: a client filed a formal application, provided basic identifying information alongside a standard monetary deposit, and was subsequently issued a distinct wooden rental token. The token was legally required to claim the costume, and its return was mandatory to retrieve the deposit upon the conclusion of the festival.

The more Simon processed the explanation, the more intense his bewilderment became.

“Why on earth would an object like this be sitting inside his residence?”

“It implies he formally rented a costume of his own.”

“He was actively planning to attend the masquerade ball.”

Peter Matterson and a whimsical masquerade ball—it was a combination so deeply discordant it defied comprehension. What business could a cold-blooded serial killer possibly have at a massive public festival? Regardless of his dark motivations, one reality remained absolute: the man had legally secured an outfit with the explicit intent of infiltrating the masquerade.

“Do you believe he will actually dare to show his face at the ball under the current circumstances?”

“It’s difficult to say.”

The killer had secured the costume well before the authorities had initiated their active manhunt. Consequently, the probability of him abandoning the plan and remaining in hiding was exceptionally high. Yet, this tiny wooden token currently constituted the absolute solitary thread linking them to the fugitive’s whereabouts. Peter Matterson, who had effectively vanished off the face of the earth, might very well materialize within that crowded hall. The odds were a clean fifty-fifty split. He would either show his face, or he wouldn’t.

“We are legally obligated to convey this intelligence to the police, however…” Clint trailed off, causing Simon to let out a deeply conflicted groan. He felt an intense, visceral reluctance to involve the authorities.

The police were already aggressively harboring absurd suspicions against them simply because they had been the ones to file the initial report. If they marched back into the precinct to declare that the killer might materialize at the masquerade ball, the sheer volume of idiotic counter-arguments the authorities would inevitably spew was enough to make Simon’s blood pressure spike.

Furthermore, did the local department possess the tactical competence required to execute a clean arrest within a dense, chaotic ballroom? It would be a miracle if they didn’t trigger a massive public panic, granting the killer the perfect cover to slip through their fingers entirely. They absolutely could not allow the police to compromise this lead. If they botched this singular window of opportunity, the likelihood of apprehending the monster before he claimed another innocent life would plummet to zero.

“What if we take it upon ourselves to resolve this independently?” Simon suggested after a long, grueling silence.

“Just the two of us?” Clint countered, shifting his gaze.

Simon nodded resolutely.

“The information isn’t entirely definitive, so we can simply verify the premises on our own terms. It’s a masquerade we were already explicitly scheduled to attend anyway. If the monster fails to materialize, then no harm is done. But if he does show up…”

“If he does?”

“We can covertly shadow his movements, pinpoint the absolute exact location of his secret hideout, and subsequently relay that concrete data to the authorities or mobilize a force to corner him. Wouldn’t that be a vastly superior strategy?” Simon argued, his voice burning with intense fervor.

Clint fell into a deep silence, carefully weighing the proposition. It was completely uncharacteristic of him to involve himself so deeply in an active investigation, and a strong part of him felt a deep reluctance to proceed. Yet, the reality of a dangerous murderer roaming freely through the streets was something he couldn’t simply ignore. The individuals who ultimately bore the horrific brunt of such monsters were invariably the impoverished and the defenseless. More than anything, however, he felt a profound, gnawing anxiety regarding the young man standing directly in front of him. He knew with absolute certainty that if he refused to accompany him, Simon would march straight into that perilous ballroom entirely on his own. This man, who casually spoke of his own impending death as an absolute certainty, possessed a terrifying tendency to charge directly into danger like a moth drawn to a flame.

“Very well,” Clint conceded with a slow nod. “We were already formally scheduled to attend the event regardless.”

The fact that he tacked on that superficial excuse was a desperate attempt to deny a reality he wasn’t quite ready to admit to himself: he was profoundly, deeply worried for Simon’s safety.

Once the ultimate decision was solidified, their operational speed was nothing short of breathtaking. Simon returned immediately to his estate, retrieved the mystery token, and explicitly commanded his household staff to ascertain exactly which local boutique had manufactured it. Because Simon attached an exceptionally massive monetary reward to the directive, the servants worked with absolute discretion and terrifying speed, rapidly unearthing the precise boutique of origin alongside the exact costume the owner of the token had secured.

‘They stated he rented a classic Harlequin outfit.’

The carriage transporting the two men finally ground to a halt directly outside the grand entrance of City Hall, where the first floor had been completely transformed into the festival’s central ballroom.

‘Peter Matterson. I am going to find you, no matter what.’

Steeling his internal resolve with a silent oath, Simon stepped down from the vehicle. Navigating toward the absolute end of a dimly lit corridor, a pair of massive, wide-open iron gates loomed ahead, beyond which the grand spectacle of the masquerade ball finally unveiled itself in its entirety.

‘Wow…’

Simon’s jaw dropped in absolute, stunned amazement.

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