Remnants before dusk || kairosteele

I

Joules Kastrati

For all things holy, I am not.

Deaths Emissary: a symbolic figure associated with the fateful end – a messenger who guides souls to the afterlife. In many belief systems, death is personified as an emissary often depicted as a grim reaper or some similar figure. In this world, it's nothing more than a child. An angry one desperate for revenge.

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The Emissary Strikes Once More: Reigniting Fear and Despair
After enduring two agonizing months of silence, the public had begun to believe they were finally safe from the merciless clutches of a violent death. However, their hopes were tarnished as the ruthless killer, known as The Emissary, meticulously prepared a new menu of torture for the next unfortunate victim. Sources have disclosed that Clarkson Grey, a 41-year-old CEO, fell victim to a brutal and eerily familiar torment, mirroring the inhumane fate suffered by The Emissary's previous targets over the past year.

With each passing day, our nation's faith in law enforcement wavers, and it becomes increasingly evident that even they are losing confidence in themselves. However, as this harbinger of death shows no signs of relenting, we mustn't surrender hope. Garris Thorne, one of the leading agents assigned to the case, has reassured our country that his team is on the cusp of unmasking the true identity of this rose-obsessed slaughter. Agent Thorne, a consummate professional who has never allowed a case to go unresolved, may face his greatest challenge. Will this case be the start of his downfall? Has he met his match?

 After three wrong arrests in the past seven months, uncertainty broods us all. When will this elusive phantom killer finally be apprehended and confined behind bars?

— The Daily Access

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The rising volume levels of the modernized diner do nothing to distract me. The incessant ringing of the bell, notifying workers of someone's arrival, the constant clattering of cutlery, and the roars of jocks celebrating god knows what. Each laugh and every sigh become noticeable and futile noises as my attention draws to the article on my screen, glaring at me with suspicious eyes.

I'd received the notification of its publication just over two minutes ago, just like everyone else in the surrounding red and white booths. Identifying those who've already read it isn't a challenge. If they weren't laughing with friends, stuffing their faces with burgers and fries, or glueing their eyes to corner-bound TV screens, they were sitting silently leering at a glowing screen.

My eyes scatter around the various groups of people adorning that same silence, and I count about a dozen. Their expressions range from that of shock, fear, a face beat red in anger (at the acting law enforcement, the killer, or both is utterly beyond me), or leached of colour. All of their expressions are valid, as are their feelings, but understanding remains the most prominent emotion they lack the capacity to feel.

I redirected my attention to the dimly lit computer screen between my partially eaten basket of fresh fries and mostly full vanilla milkshake and opened another tab. The Emissary has been at large for far too long and continues to instil fear into the hearts of men and women alike, a withered rose between their victims teeth being the most obvious tell. The killer refuses to discriminate against its victims, according to the reports. Each murder is just as brutal as the last, and there's a consistency with The Emissary's kills. Just like the ones with the detectives and agents on the case. They continuously fail to catch the culprit, and the culprit never fails to lead those same law enforcers in every direction but North. It's a long and sick game of cat and mouse, one where the winner is inevitable.