Midnight Archive / 真夜中のアーカイブ - Official Site.
📖 "Words are the only thing that survive us."
️ Welcome to the Archive of Kitahara Ryou
Author. Narrator. Dreamer caught between the lines.
This is the space where fiction and reality blur, where every story is a door to a world you never knew existed. Here you will find stories that defy logic, characters that live beyond the pages, and a writer who never stops searching for the truth hidden in every word.
🎭 The Theater of Fiction.
We are not characters. We are not stories. We are echoes of something bigger.
🔹 What is real?
🔹 Who is writing your story?
🔹 And what will you do when you find out the truth?
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The detective had never seen a crime like this.
The victim was in the center of the room, with empty eyes - read, without them - and a horrifying smile. There was no blood, no trace of violence. Just a message written on the wall:
"FOLLOW THE CLUES."
I'd seen it before. In another case. In another time.
But when he tried to remember, his mind collapsed in a whirlwind of fragmented images. Every time he concentrated, everything became a blur, as if something was pushing him forward without letting him look back at a speed at which no living thing should move.
He knew he couldn't trust his memory. Only the evidence.
And the evidence led him to the next crime scene.
Another room. Another victim.
Another message.
"FOLLOW THE DARK."
The detective felt a shiver run down his spine.
Something wasn't right.
Each clue was leading him back to the starting point. Each victim had the same face. Every message was identical.
At some point, he began to notice the repetitions in his own actions.
The way his lighter always failed on the first try.
The way his reflection took a second longer to move.
The feeling that every conversation with his partner had been had before.
He wasn't solving a mystery. He was trapped in it.
The case wasn't a maze with a way out.
It was a spiral.
The more he investigated, the deeper he fell. The more he tried to remember, the more he forgot.
Until he reached the last door.
And inside, he found him.
Sitting in a chair. Waiting for him.
His own corpse.
And on the wall, the last message:
"NOW YOU UNDERSTAND."
The detective lit a cigarette with trembling hands. He looked at his reflection in the mirror.
The case was closed.
The case had never existed.
But he was still descending.