Rain hammered against the rooftops, turning the city into a slow blur of movement and reflection. Gutters overflowed, spilling down into narrow lanes that shimmered with the orange wash of streetlights. The smell of wet metal and fuel clung to everything, thick and sour, mixing with steam rising from vents and flickering signs.
Ren sat on the floor of his father's apartment, surrounded by a hurricane of papers. Maps, grainy photographs, torn newspaper clippings, scribbled notes layered on top of each other. Red lines slashed between intersections. Circles marked every place the impostor had been seen. Pins stuck into corners of the map bled small spots of color onto damp paper.
The radio hissed beside him, faint bursts of static whispering through the air. A voice crackled, low and distorted, repeating something about patrol routes and suspects. Ren's head didn't move, but his eyes flicked toward it, tracking each sound like a predator catching scent. The muscles in his jaw flexed. Tremors ran through his fingers, small, persistent vibrations that never stopped anymore.
He hadn't slept properly in days. Maybe weeks. Time blurred into noise — radio chatter, rain, the hum of the old fridge, his own shallow breathing. His body had adapted to exhaustion. His mind had not.
Every part of the apartment carried evidence of his obsession. Photos of alleyways. Police sketches. Empty cups stacked beside the wall. Ink stained fingers and red markers without caps. Even the floorboards bore the marks of movement — pacing, sitting, crouching, rising again. The rhythm never stopped. The investigation had consumed him entirely, a living pulse within the silence.
A single thought repeated over and over, unbroken, without mercy: Find the impostor.
Every lead pointed in a circle. Every night ended the same, the copycat one step ahead, vanishing before Ren could strike. And yet, the patterns were there, faint, messy, reckless. The impostor wasn't careful. He wanted attention. He wanted the name.
Ren's hand twitched toward the photograph pinned above the lamp. A blurry image of a figure leaping from a rooftop, coat flaring behind him. The camera flash had caught only motion and rain, but the shape was enough. The city had started calling that shape The Crimson. The impostor had taken the name publicly, claiming vengeance, making statements, scrawling messages in red spray paint across the alleys where real work had once been done in silence.
Ren had been watching the news the night it began. Reporters speaking with excitement, calling it a resurgence. "The Crimson returns," they said, voice eager, bright. But the photos were wrong. The style was off. The actions were loud, showy, reckless — things Ren never allowed himself to be.
He remembered the first headline like a wound:
THE CRIMSON STRIKES AGAIN — VIGILANTE OR KILLER?
That was how the impostor had noticed him. The city's whispers had built Ren's myth faster than he could contain it. Word of mouth had twisted small acts of justice into legend. A boy in black saving the helpless in the dark — until it reached the ears of someone who wanted to wear that legend for himself. Someone who wanted power without consequence. Someone who took Ren's name and poisoned it.
Now every scream that echoed through the alleys carried his shadow. Every crime painted in red dragged his name deeper into the gutter.
Rain pounded harder outside. Ren's eyes twitched toward the window. Drops streaked down the glass in chaotic paths, distorting the glow from the streetlight beyond. His reflection shimmered faintly in the surface — a ghostly outline of exhaustion. The hooded jacket. The red-stained gloves hanging from a nail. The dark circles beneath eyes that hadn't seen rest in too long.
X's voice slithered into his mind again, soft and electric.
He stole you. He took your shadow. You built it. You bled for it. And he wears it like a mask.
Ren pressed his palms against his temples, forcing the whisper away, but it didn't stop. It never did. X had been growing louder since the impostor appeared.
End it. Take back what's yours.
He stood, the motion slow but sharp. Knees cracked from hours of stillness. Tremors flared along the calves, up the arms, into the fingers. He stretched, shaking out the tension, then crouched again over the map. The smell of ink and sweat filled his nose. Every red circle represented failure.
His father had left earlier that morning, said he was heading to work. But Ren knew the truth. He had watched him shove a half empty bottle into his coat pocket, mumbling about paychecks and shifts. The door had slammed, and the sound of rain had swallowed his footsteps. "Work" was just a word to cover the shame of running away.
Now the house was silent except for the hum of the fridge and the static of the police radio.
Hours melted. The lamp buzzed faintly, flickering when the power dipped. Ren's eyes flicked from one image to the next — a pattern emerging beneath the noise. The impostor's strikes had rhythm. North block, west district, then the south lot. Never random. Never chaotic. A grid of hunger. A spiral pulling inward toward the city center.
Ren marked another red line, circling an abandoned parking garage where the impostor's graffiti had last been spotted. He muttered softly under his breath, almost chanting the pattern aloud.
"North block. Warehouse. Train yard. Then circle back."
Each word landed like a heartbeat.
The trembling worsened the longer he stared. Blood felt too loud in his ears. Breath caught at the top of the chest. He clenched his fists, forcing the spasms still for a moment, only for them to return stronger seconds later. His body was breaking under the obsession, but the mind refused to stop.
The radio crackled again. "…reports of movement near the industrial blocks… possible Crimson sighting…"
X hissed. Go. End it. Don't think. Move.
Ren closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, then exhaled through his nose. The rain outside seemed to match the rhythm of his pulse. His muscles screamed for motion, but exhaustion dragged at the bones. Every step forward felt heavier, as though gravity itself tried to keep him bound to the obsession rather than the chase.
He stood anyway. The chair scraped against the floor as he pushed it aside. Papers fluttered under the gust from his movement. For a brief second, his hand reached toward the Suit — then stopped. No. Not yet. The impostor would make another move soon. He always did. The pattern said so.
Ren turned back toward the map, studying the red circles until they blurred together. The walls seemed to pulse faintly in the corner of his vision. He rubbed at his temples again.
He hadn't eaten since dawn. His stomach twisted, but hunger felt distant. Meaningless. He grabbed the cold cup of instant noodles from the desk, swallowed mechanically. The taste was bland, chemical, forgotten as soon as it was consumed. His mind was already somewhere else, in the dark alleys, tracing imaginary footsteps, breathing the rain heavy air of a chase that hadn't yet begun.
Another night bled into morning. The rain hadn't stopped.
The city beyond the window looked like a memory washed in grayscale. People moved like shadows under umbrellas, faces blurred by fog. The headlines on the cracked tablet screen glared back at him:
THE CRIMSON STRIKES AGAIN. THREE INJURED. POLICE ON ALERT.
Ren's pulse quickened. Tremors surged so violently that he dropped the tablet. It hit the floor with a dull thud.
He crouched slowly, fingers trembling as they brushed over the headline again. The impostor had struck in daylight. Bold. Reckless. Deliberate. He wanted to be seen.
The stolen name screamed from every word of the article. The Crimson — his Crimson — now painted as a monster.
Ren sat there for a long time, staring at the glow of the screen. The sound of rain filled the silence. His chest felt tight. His head pounded. The tremors wouldn't stop.
X whispered softly, venomous and smooth.
He's laughing at you. Every drop of blood he spills, every scream he causes — they all have your name on them. You can't hide from it anymore.
"Shut up," Ren muttered, voice hoarse.
Then prove me wrong. Find him. End him.
Ren gritted his teeth, closing his eyes, forcing the tremors into stillness through sheer will. He rose, stumbling slightly, catching himself on the table. The maps shifted, a few papers fluttering to the floor. His heartbeat echoed in his skull. Every muscle in his body begged for rest, but his mind refused to listen.
He returned to the window. Rain washed across the glass, blurring the city below. In the distance, sirens wailed — faint, rising, falling. The sound blended with his breathing until he couldn't tell which was which.
He pressed his forehead to the cold glass, eyes unfocused. He could almost see the impostor down there, moving through the fog, wearing the same mask, carrying the same red across his hands.
His hands curled into fists again.
The hours dragged. Obsession ate away at everything else — hunger, fatigue, pain, thought. The world narrowed to one purpose. The impostor was the only thing that mattered.
At some point, the door creaked open. Ren didn't turn immediately. He recognized the uneven rhythm of footsteps — his father's.
"Working hard, huh?" The older man's voice slurred slightly, the faint smell of alcohol drifting in. He tried to sound casual, but his words stumbled, tired. "You… uh… still chasing ghosts?"
Ren didn't answer. His eyes stayed fixed on the wall of maps.
"Listen, son…" the man muttered, rubbing his forehead. "You can't keep doing this. You're—"
"Go to work," Ren interrupted, voice flat, quiet, without emotion.
The father hesitated. "Yeah. Work. Right." He grabbed his jacket, still damp from the earlier rain, and shuffled toward the door. The sound of the lock clicked. The silence returned.
Ren exhaled slowly, returning to the radio. Static whispered.
"…Crimson activity… possible suspect fleeing eastward…"
X hissed again. There. He's waiting for you. End this.
Ren didn't move. Not yet. His eyes tracked the red circles again. The impostor always repeated his routes — always craved the same places where eyes could see him, where the name would echo. Vanity made him predictable.
Hours passed. The city dimmed into night again. Streetlights reflected off wet asphalt. The hum of engines and rain merged into one long, droning pulse.
Ren's hands shook uncontrollably now. His jaw clenched to stop the tremor from reaching his teeth. His breathing was shallow, tight, rhythmic — one second inhale, one second exhale. The body trembled, but the mind kept working, processing, analyzing, calculating.
The maps blurred into abstract shapes. His vision pulsed faintly with each heartbeat. X whispered still, words indistinct now, overlapping with the rhythm of his own thoughts. The difference between them had begun to fade.
He thought about the impostor again — the first moment the name "Crimson" had been stolen. A kid with no skill, just hunger for attention. Probably watched the headlines, saw the symbol, the myth, and decided to wear it like a mask. The first attack had been staged in the open — too theatrical, too desperate. Ren had ignored it at first, assuming it would fade. But it hadn't. The impostor craved the spotlight.
And now the city didn't know the difference.
The thought twisted like glass inside his chest.
He tore the latest headline from the wall, crumpling it in his hand. The paper tore under the tension in his fingers. His breath came faster, shallow. He slammed his fist against the table, sending markers and photos scattering.
The noise echoed through the small apartment.
Then silence again.
Ren stood there, trembling, staring at the mess. The world felt distant — sounds muffled, vision narrowing to a single point of focus. The rain outside became a hum.
He sat slowly, lowering himself to the floor again, pushing the scattered papers into a new pattern. Every time the obsession broke him, he rebuilt it. Each collapse formed a clearer map.
And still, X whispered, now quiet, almost tender. You're close.
The room felt smaller with every breath. The walls closer. The ceiling lower. The lamp's flicker matching his pulse. He hadn't noticed the tears that streaked through the grime on his face until one dropped onto the map, blurring a line of red ink.
He wiped it away roughly, smearing the color further.
Outside, a soft knock echoed from the porch.
His body froze. The tremors stopped completely for the first time in hours.
He turned slowly toward the sound. Another knock, faint, hesitant. Then a voice.
"Ren."
The name cracked softly through the rain.
His heart stuttered. The voice was gentle. Familiar.
He stood, silent. Moved toward the door. Every motion careful, cautious, like stepping through a dream.
He opened it halfway.
There she was — his mother.
Umbrella half folded, coat soaked at the edges, hair damp and clinging to her face. Her eyes searched his, full of worry, soft with something deeper — a kind of quiet sadness that came from love and regret mixed together.
"I had to see you," she said. "I needed to know you're alright."
Ren didn't speak. His throat tightened. The air felt heavier.
Her gaze shifted past him, to the chaos inside — the maps, the papers, the scattered photographs. Her expression faltered slightly, confusion threading with fear.
"You've… been working hard," she said quietly. "But you look—" She stopped, words catching.
He looked away, voice low, almost a whisper. "I'm fine."
She hesitated, stepping closer under the dripping porch. "Your father said you were helping people. I didn't know what that meant. But… you don't have to be alone here."
Ren's hands twitched at his sides. The tremors returned faintly, subtle. His pulse thudded in his ears.
"I'm not," he said. The lie slipped out automatically.
The silence stretched. Rain fell harder again, tapping against the umbrella's surface. The city lights blurred in the distance.
"I just wanted to see you," she murmured. "After everything. I couldn't stay away any longer."
He nodded once. "You shouldn't have come."
Her eyes flickered with hurt, but she didn't step back. "Then at least let me sit with you. Just for a while."
Ren hesitated, then nodded toward the porch steps. She sat, setting the umbrella beside her. Rain dripped through the cracks in the roof above, forming small puddles by her shoes.
Inside, Ren stood by the table, staring at the maps again. The obsession tugged at him like a leash. Every red line screamed unfinished. Every lead called him back.
His mother sat quietly outside, watching the rain fall into the street. She didn't know about the radio still whispering from the corner. She didn't know about the impostor, or the nights he'd spent hunting shadows.
Ren's hands trembled again, fingertips pressing into the wood of the table. The name Crimson echoed in his head like a curse.
He exhaled slowly, the breath shaking as it left. For a moment, he looked toward the porch — toward the faint silhouette of his mother sitting under the leaking roof. The smallest thread of warmth flickered inside the storm.
Then he turned back to the maps. The red lines waited. The obsession breathed. The rain outside masked everything else.
And beneath it all, X whispered one final time — soft, patient, inevitable:
Find him.
For a long moment, Ren didn't move.
The whisper hung in the air like a living thing, soft, electric, pressing against the walls of his skull.
Find him.
His fingers hovered over the red lines drawn across the map. Every intersection looked the same. Every circle, every name, every path bled into each other. None of it made sense anymore, but he couldn't stop staring.
The rain outside had deepened into a roar. The lamp flickered, throwing slow pulses of light across his face. His reflection in the window looked hollow, eyes sunken, skin pale beneath the shadows.
Find him.
Ren pushed away from the table suddenly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor. The sound cracked through the silence like glass breaking.
He turned toward the door.
His mother was still sitting outside under the porch, the umbrella resting beside her, half forgotten. Her coat had darkened with rain, fabric clinging to her arms. She looked up when she heard him, eyes catching the light from the doorway.
"Ren," she said softly, voice barely rising above the downpour.
He stood in the doorway for a long time, staring at her — at the fragile shape of her against the storm. Something inside him twisted sharply.
He stepped outside. The rain hit his face, cold and immediate, soaking through his clothes within seconds.
"Why are you still here?" His voice came out rougher than he meant, the exhaustion in it almost hiding the tremor.
"I told you," she said, "I wanted to see you."
Her words were quiet, but there was no hesitation in them.
"You shouldn't," he muttered. "This place isn't safe."
"I'm not afraid."
"You should be."
He took another step out, standing beside her under the leaking edge of the roof. Water dripped rhythmically beside them, each drop hitting the wooden step with a hollow tap.
She looked up at him, eyes full of something he couldn't meet — sorrow, maybe. Love. Memory.
"You don't look well," she said softly.
"I'm fine."
"You said that before."
"I'm fine," he repeated — louder, sharper this time.
The sound startled her slightly, but she didn't move.
He ran a hand through his soaked hair, the tremor in his fingers more visible now. "You shouldn't have come," he said again, voice breaking at the edge.
She reached out, her hand brushing his arm. "I had to."
Her touch was light, hesitant, but it broke something open inside him.
He turned away suddenly, pacing a few steps down the porch. His boots splashed through shallow puddles, sending thin arcs of water outward. His breath came fast.
"You don't understand," he said, voice shaking. "You think I'm just — what? Losing sleep over nothing?"
"I think you're hurting," she said gently.
He stopped. His shoulders tensed. "Hurting?" He laughed — a sound without humor, sharp and broken. "I'm not hurting. I'm burning."
The rain swallowed the words, but she heard them.
"I see what this is doing to you," she whispered. "Whatever you've been chasing… it's tearing you apart."
Ren turned, and the look in his eyes made her chest tighten. There was something feral there — grief twisted into rage.
"He took everything," Ren said, stepping closer. "Do you understand that? Everything I built, everything I tried to fix — he stole it. My name. My work. The people think he's me."
His voice cracked. "And I can't even sleep without hearing him laugh."
Her face softened with pain. "Then let it go. You don't have to—"
"I can't!"
The word ripped out of him, raw and desperate. He took another step forward, rainwater streaming down his face, mixing with the heat rising from his chest. "If I stop, then it's over. He wins. And if he keeps using that name—"
He faltered, breath catching.
"If he keeps doing this," he whispered, "then I lose everything I tried to hold on to. You see it, don't you? They already think I'm… lost."
She shook her head, tears cutting through the rain. "You're not."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
The words hit him like a blow. He froze, staring at her, at the conviction in her face, the trembling in her voice.
Her hand reached for his cheek, fingers brushing against the cold, rain wet skin. "You're still my son," she whispered. "No matter what the world says."
Ren's chest tightened so hard it hurt. His jaw trembled. He tried to pull away, but she held on gently, refusing to let go.
"I should've been there," she said. "For both of you."
Ren's eyes flicked up sharply. "Both?"
Her voice broke. "Your brother. You don't talk about him anymore, but I see it in you. Every time you disappear, every time you come back with that look — it's like you're still chasing him."
Rain drummed on the porch. The sound filled the silence that followed.
Ren's hands curled into fists at his sides. His breathing grew uneven. "He's gone."
"Then why can't you stop running?"
He couldn't answer. He felt the words rise — because I can't let go, because I still hear him, because I see his shadow everywhere — but they caught in his throat, choked by something heavier than truth.
His legs gave a small tremor. He staggered back, gripping the railing.
"Ren," she said softly, reaching for him again.
He shook his head violently, the rain washing across his face. "Don't. Please don't."
Tears burned behind his eyes. His breath came short, uneven. The world tilted, the porch, the street, the glow of the lights. His vision blurred.
"I tried," he whispered. "I tried to make it right. I thought if I fixed everything, if I punished the ones who hurt people, maybe… maybe I could undo it."
She stepped closer, her voice trembling. "Undo what?"
Ren looked at her then — truly looked — and whatever she saw in his expression made her freeze.
"Losing him," he said softly.
The words came out broken, fragile, carried away almost instantly by the storm.
Her face paled. She reached for him again, but he stepped back, shaking his head.
"I see him," Ren said, his voice trembling. "Every time I close my eyes. Every scream, every fight, every night I hear that voice asking me why I didn't save him."
"Ren—"
"I see him!" he shouted, hands pressed to his temples, eyes wide, tears and rain indistinguishable now. "He's everywhere — in the shadows, in the sirens, in the mirror. I can't stop hearing him."
His knees buckled, and he dropped to a crouch, palms flat against the wet wood. The rain hammered around them, drowning everything else out. His breath came in ragged gasps.
His mother knelt beside him, arms wrapping around his shoulders. For a moment, he resisted, every muscle tight, every instinct pushing her away — but then he broke. His body shuddered violently, and the sob tore through him, sharp and desperate, years of restraint collapsing in one breath.
She held him. No words. Just the rain, and the sound of his grief finally unbound.
Minutes passed. Maybe longer.
When the trembling began to fade, Ren pulled back slowly. His eyes were red, his voice raw. "I can't stop," he said softly. "He's still out there. I have to find him."
"Ren," she whispered, "you don't even know if—"
"I do." His tone shifted, quieter, steadier now, but no less broken. "I saw the mask. I heard the laugh. It's him — or something pretending to be."
Her eyes widened, but before she could speak, he rose. His movements were slow, deliberate. He stepped toward the edge of the porch, the rain soaking through him again.
"Ren," she said, voice shaking. "Don't go."
He didn't turn back.
"I have to," he said. "If I don't end this, no one will."
"Please," she pleaded, her voice cracking. "You'll lose yourself."
He paused, one hand resting against the railing. For a second, he almost looked back. Almost.
Then he whispered, barely audible over the storm, "Maybe that's the point."
And he stepped off the porch, into the downpour.
The street stretched ahead — long, empty, endless. The rain washed away the warmth of her voice, the weight of her hands, the flicker of something almost human still left in him.
He pulled up his hood. The world narrowed to sound and motion — the rhythm of footsteps, the pulse of the storm, the whisper that returned now, steady and sure.
Find him.
Ren disappeared into the rain.