The cloeared midnight. A cold wind swept through the docks of London, carrying the st of the sea mixed with the distant smoke of factories. Amidst this bleak atmosphere, Jin Ishida stepped off the ship, a leather suitcase in hand, his dark eyes sing the city that would soon bee his new battleground.

  The pce was bustling—men in heavy coats hauling cargo, horse-drawn carriages rattling along the narrow streets, and gas mps casting dim light through the thick fog that bed everything.

  "London..." Jin muttered under his breath, as if testing the weight of the name on his tongue. He hadn’t e here by choice—his work as a private iigator had brought him to this cold, fn nd. A mysterious murder. A British businessman found dead in his mansion, with a cryptic message written in his own blood.

  "Find the man who has no face."

  That was all that had bee beside the corpse. The British police, despite their experience, had failed to decipher the meaning. And so, Jin Ishida had been called in—a man known for solving the unsolvable.

  He walked through the cobbled streets, heading toward his modest hotel. He didn’t need a guide; he had studied the city’s map well before his arrival. The fog here was different… not just a natural occurrence, but more like a curtain cealis yet to be uncovered.

  When he reached the hotel, an elderly innkeeper greeted him with a cautious g wasn’t on to see a Japanese man here, especially iimes.

  "A room for Mr. Ishida?" the old man asked in a hushed voice.

  Jin gave a silent nod, accepting the key without further words. Fatigue weighed on him, but he had no iion of sleeping just yet. He pulled a folded paper from his coat pocket—details of the case—and once agaihe cryptic words:

  "Find the man who has no face."

  He lifted his gaze, eyes meeting his own refle in the mirror. In this city of endless fog, where lies and truth iwined like shadows—one question loomed in his mind.

  Where does the illusion end, and the truth begin?