As Detective Hikaru proposed, they were three of them—at least, three major.
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Serial Killing Cases-
The rain never truly stopped. It simply changed its rhythm — sometimes a drizzle, sometimes a downpour — but it was always there, washing the streets of the city while the killings continued beneath it.
By mid-October 2010, the serial killings had escalated into something the entire country was watching with growing horror. The media called it "The Hollow Season." News channels ran almost nonstop coverage. Newspapers printed special editions with bold, blood-red headlines. Radio podcasts dissected every new case with grim fascination. The public was terrified, fascinated, and exhausted all at once.
Here is how the nightmare unfolded across the media:
TV News – National Broadcast (October 15, 2010)
The anchor, a serious woman in a dark blazer, spoke directly into the camera with controlled urgency:
"Another brutal murder was discovered early this morning in a quiet residential alley in Yokohama. The victim, a 42-year-old office worker, was found with his throat slashed and abdomen brutally opened. Police sources confirm the pattern matches the growing series of killings that have now claimed at least twelve lives across multiple prefectures in the past six weeks. Authorities are calling this the most disturbing wave of serial violence in modern Japanese history."
The screen cut to grainy security footage of a figure in dark clothing walking away from the scene, face obscured.
Newspaper Headlines (October 16–22, 2010)
•Asahi Shimbun: "Police Suspect Multiple Killers Behind 'Hollow Season' Massacre"
•Yomiuri Shimbun: "From Park to Mall to Alley — The Killer Leaves No Pattern, Only Bodies"
•Mainichi Daily News: "Expert Profiler: 'These Are Not Random. Someone Is Feeding on Emptiness.'"
One tabloid went further, printing a full-page graphic with three stylized white masks and the caption: "We Are Just. The Rain Cannot Wash Us Away."
Police Press Conference (November 7, 2010)
Detective Hikaru stood at the podium, flanked by the chief and several senior officers. His face was calm, but his eyes showed the strain of too many sleepless nights.
"We are now treating these as the work of at least three separate perpetrators operating with similar methods," he said clearly. "The killings share signature brutality — throats opened, abdomens torn, viscera exposed — but forensic evidence suggests different hands. We urge the public to remain vigilant. Curfews remain in effect for minors. Report any suspicious activity immediately."
A reporter shouted from the back: "Is it true one of the killers has been using the face of a local teacher?"
Hikaru's jaw tightened slightly. "We are pursuing all leads."
Radio Podcast – "Night in the Hollow" (Popular true-crime show, Episode 47, November 8, 2010)
Host (grave tone): "Welcome back, listeners. Tonight we're diving deep into the three shadows theory. Eyewitness from the Yokohama alley described a young boy in school uniform walking away calmly after the killing. Another witness in Saitama swears they saw a man in a suit with a dog's face. And then there's the park incident — the mother and child. The killer there moved like a ghost. No emotion. No rush."
Guest expert: "This isn't one monster. This is the case of monsters who learned from each other. Or perhaps… something worse. Something that taught them."
Eyewitness Accounts (Compiled in News Reports)
"I saw her. She was just standing there after it happened. No screaming, no running. She looked… empty." — Anonymous witness, Yokohama alley murder.
"The man looked exactly like that teacher on TV. Same face. Same calm walk. But something was wrong with his eyes." — Store customer who escaped the mall massacre.
"The person didn't even blink when they hit the mother. Like they were folding laundry." — Child who hid behind a tree and supposedly survived the park attack.
The coverage was relentless. Every channel, every newspaper, every podcast repeated the same chilling facts: throats slashed with surgical precision, abdomens opened like gifts, organs left glistening in the rain. The death toll had climbed to fifteen in just over a month. The city was suffocating under fear and speculation.
Three major killers. Yet to be confirmed.
Three shadows moving through the rain.
And somewhere in the darkness, they were still feeding.
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His name was Haruto Nakamura.
Mid-twenties, third-year college student majoring in literature at a mid-tier university in the suburbs of Tokyo. To everyone who knew him, Haruto was quiet, polite, and unremarkable — the kind of guy who sat in the back row of lectures, took neat notes, and rarely spoke unless called upon. He had messy dark hair that fell into his eyes, wore simple hoodies and jeans, and always carried a worn paperback in his bag. His classmates liked him well enough; he was never rude, never loud, never caused trouble. He smiled when appropriate and disappeared when the conversation turned too personal.
During the day, Haruto lived an ordinary life.
He woke up at 7:30 in his small, rented apartment — a one-room place with a futon, a desk cluttered with textbooks, and a single window that looked out onto a narrow alley. He made instant miso soup and rice for breakfast, ate while scrolling through news on his phone (always skipping the headlines about the "Hollow Season" killings), then headed to campus by train. Lectures were boring but tolerable. He took careful notes, occasionally underlined passages about isolation and human connection in modern Japanese novels. During lunch he sat alone under a tree in the courtyard, reading or staring into space. In the afternoons he worked part-time at a small bookstore near the station, stacking shelves and recommending quiet stories to elderly customers. He was good at it. People trusted his soft voice and gentle recommendations.
No one knew about the other Haruto.
At night, when the city grew dark and the rain began to fall, the ordinary student disappeared.
Tonight was one of those nights.
The rain was heavy again, turning the back alleys of an old industrial district into shallow rivers. Haruto moved through the darkness like he belonged there. He wore a plain black hoodie with the hood up, dark jeans, and black gloves. No mask tonight — he didn't need one for this kind of work. His face remained calm, almost peaceful, the same gentle expression he used when recommending books.
He had chosen the location carefully: a forgotten loading dock behind an abandoned warehouse on the edge of the district. The place was pitch black, the only light coming from a single flickering streetlamp far away that barely reached the shadows. The ground was uneven concrete covered in puddles and scattered debris. The air smelled of rust, wet stone, and decay.
Two people were already there — a young couple in their early twenties who had been walking home after a late movie. They had taken a shortcut through the alley, laughing and holding hands, unaware of how dangerous the night had become.
Haruto stepped out of the shadows without a sound.
The girl noticed him first. "Excuse me… do you need help?"
Haruto smiled softly, the same polite smile he used at the bookstore. "No. But you might."
Before they could react, he moved.
He grabbed the boy first, slamming him against the concrete wall with surprising strength. The boy's head cracked against the stone. Haruto pulled out a long, thin knife — the same kind he always carried — and drove it upward under the boy's ribs in one smooth motion. The boy gasped, eyes widening in shock as blood bubbled from his mouth. Haruto twisted the blade, then yanked it free and slashed across the throat in a clean arc. Blood sprayed hot and dark across the wet ground.
The girl screamed and tried to run, but Haruto was faster. He caught her by the hair, pulling her back. She struggled, clawing at his arm, but he remained calm, almost gentle in his efficiency. He spoke softly into her ear as he pressed the knife to her throat.
"Shh. It's okay. It doesn't have to hurt anymore."
He opened her throat with one precise cut. Blood poured down her front in a thick sheet, mixing with the rain. As she collapsed to her knees, gurgling, Haruto knelt beside her and continued his work — stabbing methodically into her abdomen, opening it wide. Intestines spilled out in wet, steaming loops onto the dirty concrete. The girl's hands scrabbled weakly at her own guts, trying to push them back inside, but they slipped through her fingers like slick ropes. Haruto watched her face the entire time, his expression blank and serene, as if he were simply observing the rain.
When both bodies finally stopped moving, he stood up, wiped the knife on the boy's jacket, and slipped it back into his pocket. He looked down at the two corpses — throats opened, abdomens torn, viscera glistening in the rain — and felt nothing but a quiet satisfaction. The hollow inside him felt a little smaller tonight.
Haruto turned and walked away into the darkness, footsteps splashing softly through the puddles. Behind him, the rain continued to fall, washing pink rivulets of blood into the gutter.
To the rest of the world, he was still just Haruto Nakamura — the quiet college student who liked books and kept to himself.
No one knew he was the third shadow.