A fly hummed in the eerie quiet, drawn to the only moisture in this barren scene, a pale blue eye. The eye, devoid of life yet twitching reflexively, was a chilling meal for the fly.

The eye belonged to the remnants of a man, his form a violent tableau of fragmented limbs and a face locked in a silent scream of death.

Two agents in biohazard suits, their unease visible beneath professional masks, approached. They began the grim task of collecting the macabre remains, their gloved hands dancing a chilling ballet.

"Look at this, Kurosawa," the first agent said, pointing at the man's shredded limbs. "The force required to do this... it's beyond any infection I've seen."

Kurosawa, a veteran of such grim scenes, grimaced behind his mask. "I've seen similar cases in combat zones, but never in a civilian area. And never on this scale."

They worked in silence, the only sounds the distant hum of the city and the squelch of their boots on the blood-soaked ground. As they loaded the remains onto their truck, the first agent voiced a thought that had been gnawing at him. "What do you think happened here?"

"An attack," Kurosawa replied, his gaze sweeping over the devastated city. "But not by any conventional weapon. No, this was something else... something we've never seen before."

Kurosawa's eyes widened at the sight. Tokyo, usually vibrant and lively, was now a city of death, bodies strewn about like grim confetti. Everyone in Tokyo was dead.

In this silent metropolis, biohazard-suited agents moved methodically, their grim task resembling a spectral ballet. Occasionally, an agent paused, daunted by the immense tragedy, then resumed their duty.

Beside Kurosawa, the first agent shuddered. Even as a seasoned professional, this catastrophe was beyond his understanding. Kurosawa's words resonated with him: "An attack, but not by any conventional weapon... something we've never seen before."

It was the only explanation that made sense, yet it made no sense at all. As they continued their grim task, the agents couldn't shake off the feeling that they were standing on the precipice of something unknown, something terrifying. The fly took off, its wings beating a mournful rhythm against the quiet city, echoing the uncertainty that lay heavy in their hearts.

As the agents worked, their practiced movements became like a dance of death. They moved with quiet precision, picking up limbs, carefully placing them into biohazard bags. The sound of zippers closing echoed in the silence, a disturbing counterpoint to the quiet rustle of their suits. There was an almost reverent respect in their actions, a recognition of the life that once inhabited the bodies they were handling.

But their practiced routine was disrupted by an unusual sight not far from their location. A man, seemingly out of place in the midst of the clean-up crew, was hunched over a body. He was poking it curiously with a pen, as if he were a child inspecting a new toy. There was a disconcerting lack of fear or respect in his actions. His clothes were wrinkled, his hair unkempt, his face shadowed with the growth of several days. He looked like he hadn't slept in a while, and yet there was a spark of manic energy in his eyes.

He wasn't dressed in a protective suit like the other agents, just casual attire that looked like it hadn't been changed in days. His shirt was untucked, tie loose around his neck, and his jacket hung haphazardly over one shoulder. He seemed unaffected by the carnage around him, his attention entirely focused on the body before him.

The man had a vibe of nonchalance, as though he were inspecting a piece of art rather than a human body. It was a stark contrast to the grim determination of the clean-up crew. He appeared almost...carefree. It was as if the sheer scale of the disaster had pushed him past the point of horror into a realm of detached curiosity.

The two agents exchanged a glance, their eyes reflecting the same question. Who was this man, and what was he doing in the middle of a disaster zone, poking at bodies with a pen?

As the two agents were methodically doing their grim work, the first agent's eyes locked onto the figure of the man prodding a body with a pen. The sight made him freeze in his tracks, and he squinted to get a better look, his hands momentarily pausing in their task.

"Takamura-san!" He exclaimed, recognition dawning in his voice. The man turned at the call, and tiredly stood.

The agents walked towards him, their boots crunching on the debris beneath. "It's Suzuki... Suzuki from the Sendai mission. Do you remember me Sir?" Suzuki said, hoping to jog the memory of the man who was now an inspector.

Takamura's response was a simple, weary sigh. He acknowledged the introduction with a curt, "Hello," his voice barely rising above a whisper. His fingers fumbled around in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He placed one between his lips, lit it, and took a long, slow drag before exhaling. The smoke billowed out from his mouth, swirling upwards into the overcast sky, the grey against the grey, seemingly lost in the vast expanse just like the city beneath it.

The three men stood there in silence, the only sound the faint crackle of Takamura's cigarette as he took a slow drag. The silence was thick, almost tangible, pressing down on them with the weight of the devastation around them. It was as if time had frozen in this little pocket of the city.

The agents shifted uncomfortably, the soles of their boots crunching on the debris beneath them. The glow from Takamura's cigarette cast odd shadows on his face, accentuating the hollows under his eyes and the sharp lines of his tired features. Kurosawa cleared his throat, an attempt to dispel the tension, but it was swallowed up by the heavy silence.

Suzuki glanced at his colleague, then back at Takamura, the question burning in his mind. He took a deep breath, the taste of the air, although he had an air filter in his helmet, filled his mouth with a salty flavour. And then he dared to break the silence.

"Sir, you are not wearing your protective suit. Aren't you afraid of getting contaminated?"

Takamura turned to him, his eyes, tired and bloodshot, met Suzuki's. He let out a dry chuckle, "From what?" he asked, his voice carrying a hint of bitterness.

The question caught Suzuki off guard, he stammered for a moment, his eyes darting between the inspector and the sea of bodies surrounding them. "From...from whatever killed all these people," he finally managed to say, gesturing vaguely at the grim panorama around them.

Takamura's gaze drifted down to the ground, his cigarette tip glowing brighter as he took a slow, deliberate drag. "A suit wouldn't make a difference," he said, his voice as dry as the ashes falling from his cigarette.

The two agents' faces paled slightly at his statement, a shiver of fear threading through their spines. Kurosawa swallowed hard, gathering his thoughts before finally mustering the courage to ask, "So... you know what happened here?"

Takamura sighed, the sound long and weary. He looked at the agents, his eyes hard and unyielding. "Not for certain," he said, "But the evidence speaks for itself."

With that, he bent down and picked up a severed arm that lay nearby. The agents recoiled slightly, but Takamura simply held it up for them to see. "Look at these cuts," he said, pointing to the clean, precise lines. "Too clean, too precise. This isn't the work of a virus or a bio-attack. This was a mass murder."

The agents could only stare, their minds spinning with the horrifying implications of what he was saying. The arm dropped back to the ground with a dull thud, a gruesome punctuation to Takamura's grim revelation.

The flies, like dark, sinister stars in the daylight, descended upon the arm once more. They swarmed with a frantic fervor, a grotesque ballet of survival in the face of death. The buzzing sound they made was intrusive, cutting through the stillness of the scene like a jarring note in a quiet symphony.

Suzuki watched them, his eyes tracing their chaotic dance. There was something horrifying yet hypnotic about it, a morbid fascination that rooted him to the spot. His gaze was intense, his green eyes reflecting the macabre spectacle before him. The shadows of the flies flitted across his face, casting an eerie, twitching mosaic on his pallid skin.

"Mass murder?" The words left Suzuki's lips like an accusation, his voice barely above a whisper as he tore his gaze away from the flies. It was a chilling thought, one that sent icy tendrils of dread curling around his heart. "But how is that possible?"

His hands, which had been steadily clasping and unclasping at his sides, stilled as he gathered his thoughts. "Three days ago, at exactly 8:04 p.m., everything in Tokyo was fine. Thirty minutes later..." He trailed off, his gaze sweeping over the city – over the bodies and the intact buildings – and the absurdity of it all hit him anew. "...We find this slaughter."

Suzuki glanced at Takamura, desperation etched in the lines of his face. He looked like a man teetering on the edge of a precipice, desperate for something – anything – that could help him make sense of the chaos. His voice, when it finally broke the silence, was laced with a mix of dread and disbelief. "How can one person, or even a group, accomplish this in such a short time?"

The silence that followed was almost unbearable. The distant hum of clean-up crews and the droning buzz of the flies seemed to amplify in the void, a cruel reminder of the grim reality they faced.

Takamura fumbled for another cigarette, the end of it glowing orange as he lit it. The smoke curled upwards, wisping and writhing into the clear sky above. The two agents watched him, their eyes shadowed with anticipation and anxiety. Their gazes were locked on him, their bodies taut with the tension of waiting for an answer, for a clue, for a revelation to ease their curiosity.

Takamura drew deeply on his cigarette, his face momentarily illuminated by the tiny ember at its end. He let out a slow stream of smoke, his eyes distant, the lines on his face etched deeper by the grim pallor of the scene around them.

"I...don't know yet," he finally confessed, his voice hoarse and carrying the weight of his uncertainty. The disappointment that washed over the agents was palpable, a collective sigh that echoed in the devastated silence of the city.

"But," he started again after a moment, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. "There is an old legend that once told death was a blue flashing silhouette. And that anyone who saw it would surely die."

A chill ran through the agents as the words left his lips, the gravity of them settling heavily on their hearts. They watched him, their expressions a mixture of fascination and fear, as he fell silent once more. His gaze was far-off, lost in the sea of bodies, each one surrounded by a ghostly blue aura that only he could see.

He lifted his hand, fingers tracing the shape of the city, the blue specters, the lingering echoes of the departed. "I can still see it," he murmured, his voice barely audible, his words cutting through the dread silence. "The blue light, enveloping every one of the dead. It's still here, lurking, searching for its next victims."

His words hung in the air like a bad omen, a chilling prophecy that left the agents staring at him in stunned silence. The only sound was the distant hum of the clean-up crews and the buzz of the flies, a grim chorus to Takamura's haunting revelation.

The agents stood rooted to the spot, their minds reeling with the inspector's cryptic declaration. The eerie blue light, the death silhouette, the lingering presence... What did it all mean? Through the reflective visors of their helmets, their eyes met in a silent exchange of bafflement and unease. The world around them, already surreal in its devastation, had taken on an even more unsettling hue.

Takamura, watching their bewilderment with an unreadable expression, let out a sigh that was lost in the wind. His voice, when he spoke, was devoid of its previous softness, replaced instead with a steel-hard authority. "Back to work," he commanded, his tone brooking no argument.

With that, he turned his back on them, the end of his cigarette glowing like a dying star in the gloom. His hands found their way into his pockets, his shoulders slumped under the weight of knowledge he held. As he walked away, he seemed to blend into the cityscape, his figure becoming one with the devastation.

The agents watched him go, their minds still grappling with his words. But as the inspector disappeared into the bleak horizon, they found themselves left with more questions than answers. With a shared nod, they returned to their gruesome task, the echo of Takamura's words a chilling soundtrack to their efforts.

With an eerie sense of deja vu, Takamura was once again pulled from his grim reverie by the abrupt vibration of his phone. The silence around him shattered, his heart pounded in his chest as he glanced down at the screen. The caller ID flashed the name 'Sato' in glaring neon letters, and he felt an icy dread curl in his stomach.

Shaking off his surprise, he answered the call, his tone shifting from the mysterious melancholy to one of professional efficiency. "Hello, Sato-san, what's up?" he asked, though the strange aura that lingered around him remained, casting a discomforting shadow.

The voice that responded was high-pitched, trembling with the terror that Takamura had come to associate with catastrophe. "Takamura-san! I have bad news!" Sato stammered out.

A cold chill ran down Takamura's spine. "Take it easy... just calm down and tell me!" he commanded, his voice steady despite the rising anxiety within him.

There was a moment of dreadful silence before Sato managed to choke out his message. "It happened again, Takamura. Everyone is dead, this time in New Delhi, India. No survivors! Dead corpses everywhere!"

Takamura's stoic façade faltered as the horrifying news sank in. His breath hitched and his heart pounded in his chest. "What!?" he gasped, his mind reeling with the implications. The same entity, the same method, another city... The pattern was unmistakable, and terrifying.

His mind raced, trying to piece together the puzzle that had just become infinitely more complex. Was this the same force that had decimated Tokyo? Was it truly an unstoppable, supernatural entity bent on wiping out humanity? And most importantly, could they find a way to stop it before it struck again?

His grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white. Time was slipping through his fingers like sand, and every second they wasted brought more death and destruction. As he glanced back at the devastation behind him, the blood-soaked streets of Tokyo seemed to hiss a chilling warning: the entity, whatever it was, was growing stronger, bolder, and more deadly.

"I'll be right there..." Takamura