Jakob Eisner stared into the small mirror above his bathroom sink. The neon light flickered dimly, casting a pale glow that deepened the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. He was thirty years old, but his soul felt far older. Dark brown hair, already streaked with faint strands of gray. A thin scar across his left temple—an unwelcome souvenir from a night he preferred to forget.

  He touched the small wooden cross hanging from his neck—a keepsake from his mother, a seamstress from a northern town near Frankfurt. Once, his family had lived comfortably. His father, a Wehrmacht officer, would come home with chocolates from France, patting Jakob's head and saying,

  "The world is cruel, son. But you must be crueler than the world."

  But the world had proven far harsher than his father had ever imagined.

  When Allied air raids reduced the city to rubble, ten-year-old Jakob had awakened beneath the wreckage, clutching the frozen body of his mother. Their home was gone. His childhood memories faded into shades of gray.

  Jakob was raised in a Catholic orphanage. He grew into a quiet, diligent boy who preferred philosophy and law books over the Bible. He believed in the law—not as an arm of the state, but as the only means to redeem a broken world.

  "Without law," he once said to the orphanage director, "we are no different from those who rained bombs from the sky."

  In 1950, Jakob joined the West German police force. Many of his senior officers were former Nazi soldiers who had never truly faced judgment for their past. Jakob knew it—but he stayed silent.

  He chose to uphold the law himself, as cleanly as he could.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Now, he stood in the Frankfurt Criminal Police headquarters, third floor, Room 307. His desk was immaculate. Files organized by date, pens all facing the same direction. In the bottom drawer, two faded photographs lay hidden: one of his family, and another—of a little girl’s corpse he had found in 1945, amidst the wreckage of the war.

  "Jakob," a voice called from the doorway.

  Inspector Meyer—a heavyset man with a bald head and eyes permanently narrowed in suspicion.

  "About last night's incident in the alley… are you sure you weren't seeing things?"

  Jakob turned his chair to face him. "I'm sure. A man. Two pistols. Two victims. It was all real."

  "But there’s no trace. No fingerprints. No bullets."

  "The fog was thick. The crime scene compromised. But they're dead, and someone killed them."

  Meyer sighed, studying Jakob for a long moment before shutting the door behind him.

  "Jakob, you're the officer I trust the most. But you're also the most stubborn. People around the department are starting to wonder if you’re… carrying too much."

  Jakob stared at the floor, unable to answer.

  That night, he sat alone in his small apartment.

  Bare brick walls and dim lighting made the room feel more like a prison cell than a home.

  Before him lay the files of the two victims:

  Karl Freuden (43, former attorney) and Annelise Berg (9, orphan).

  No blood ties. No professional connections.

  Yet something gnawed at him. The name Karl Freuden stirred a memory.

  Jakob sifted through old case files. His heart pounded as he found it:

  Karl had once defended a high-ranking Nazi officer, who had walked free on a technicality. The prosecution had tried to appeal—failed.

  Jakob whispered under his breath, "And now he’s dead."

  He stared at the photo of the little girl. Innocent. No criminal record.

  But why had she been killed too?

  Then he found a note:

  Annelise had been a witness in the murder of her foster father three years ago—a case that remained unsolved. The prime suspect had walked free for lack of evidence.

  Jakob rose to his feet. His heart hammered.

  This wasn’t coincidence.

  This was selection.

  This was judgment.

  Suddenly, an envelope slid under his door.

  Jakob spun around.

  No footsteps. No presence in the hallway.

  He crouched, picking up the envelope. Slowly, he opened it.

  Inside was a single sheet of paper.

  One line:

  "If the law cannot punish, then I will take its place."

  No signature.

  Only a single letter, written large at the bottom corner:

  R.

  Jakob clenched the paper in his fist.

  He felt a coldness creeping into his fingertips.

  Outside, the fog was thickening again.

  And for the first time in many years, Jakob Eisner felt something stronger than logic or conviction.

  Fear.