"Someone has to dirty their hands if the world is to stay clean."
It was a bright morning. Sunlight slipped through the curtains, painting the untouched breakfast table with soft gold. Andrew stared at the television screen nestled in the corner of his cramped apartment kitchen. Just because the day was bright didn't mean everything else would be.
"...embezzlement by one of the council members..."
The anchor's voice droned from the TV, sharp despite its monotony, as though even she was tired of reporting the same stories day after day.
Andrew wasn't surprised. He simply sat there, stirring his cold coffee. His tired eyes drifted toward the smoggy skyline of city J****, unchanged from yesterday, and the day before that. Outside, a billboard flashed an image of a politician smiling broadly beneath the words "Let's change, and be the change." Ironic, considering that same man had been arrested recently over a very specific scandal.
"...the authorities have yet to arrest the suspect, citing ongoing investigations..." the news continued.
Isn't anyone sick of this? Andrew thought.
He sipped his coffee, grabbed his worn-out jacket, and headed off to work.
His steps were steady as he descended the stairs of the old apartment building. The morning air was still crisp, not yet drowned by honking horns and crowded streets. He passed a newspaper stand that now mostly sold phone credit and chilled drinks. The vendor glanced up briefly, then returned to scrolling on his phone.
At Central Police Headquarters, the atmosphere was as usual—slightly too busy, slightly too slow.
"Andrew," called Captain Jack from his office. "Got a case for you."
"What kind of case?" Andrew asked.
"Shoplifting at a minimart. The owner suspects his neighbour. Nothing exciting, but as a good detective, you'll do it. Understood?"
Andrew nodded, skimmed the report, and left the room without a word.
Another one of these, he thought.
By midday, he was at the scene. He took notes, snapped pictures, questioned the store owner and a few locals.
The job wrapped up quickly, almost too quickly. He returned to the station with minimal notes and a straightforward conclusion.
Back at his cramped desk, Andrew typed the report. His fingers moved mechanically over the keys.
Just as he hit save, Captain Jack summoned him again.
"Andrew. Got another one for you."
"What is it now?"
"Security breach at a privately-owned weapons warehouse. Not a major case, but the owner has connections. We need to look sharp."
Andrew nodded, glanced over the file, and left without a fuss. He knew the drill. This was just smoke and mirrors—something to make it seem like the department was doing its job.
On his way out, he crossed paths with his colleague, Mary Celeste. Arguably the best female detective in the office—and his rival.
"Didn't expect to see you still here," she said. "Thought you'd quit by now."
Andrew kept walking, silent.
"Must really love your job, even if it's just pocket change."
"You on a case too?" Andrew asked.
"Yeah. Something more worthwhile than yours."
"Then mind your own business," he replied and left her behind.
By late afternoon, he was at the warehouse. It was an isolated facility on the city's edge. Faint, half-erased footprints. CCTV cameras that just happened to fail during the key hours. He took notes, photos, spoke with one or two security guards who seemed more scared of losing their jobs than of telling the truth.
He wrapped up near sunset. Back at the station, he wrote down a simple deduction: an inside job. But, as always, no one would bother digging deeper.
Walking back toward the station, his mind wandered. What was the point of his work? People eyed him with suspicion, like his presence was merely a facade to make the police seem active. Mary's words echoed in his mind. That his assignments were scraps—designed to keep him occupied, to keep him quiet.
Maybe it was time to leave.
"Look! Look at that!" shouted a passerby, pointing up at a digital billboard.
The screen flickered, glitched—then stabilised.
A face appeared.
Or rather, not a face.
A smooth white mask. No eye holes. No expression. Just a blank, glossy surface.
Andrew froze.
Phones, televisions—every screen showed the same image. The entire city transformed into a sea of faceless stares.
"Good evening, citizens."
Panic welled in Andrew. He broke into a sprint back to the station.
"Tonight marks the beginning. We've remained silent too long. They've stolen from us, hidden behind laws of their own making. But that ends now."
People scrambled. Some tried turning off their devices, but the image reappeared every time, unstoppable.
Then, the screens shifted.
A video. Secret footage. A politician accepting a suitcase full of cash. His face clearly visible. The location unmistakable.
Andrew narrowed his eyes. He recognised the man.
The same one from this morning's broadcast—still supposedly "under investigation."
He ran faster, heart pounding. Something inside him stirred—fear, joy, confusion—all tangled in a knot he couldn't untie.
"I am not a hero. I am not a saviour. I am merely a mirror—reflecting their true faces. And now, I will show them to you all."
Suddenly, all screens went black.
Silence swept the city.
Andrew stood still, his face bathed in the dying blue glow.
Then—
Beep.
A sound from the recording lingered—just a second too long.
"...Andrew Kael."
He froze.
The screen was off. But he heard it. Clearly.
"Who...?" he muttered.
He turned. No one.
On the back wall, his phone screen lit up. One message, there for only a second:
You know who I am.
Then everything returned to normal.
As if nothing had happened.