Night loomed over Novaria, casting long shadows across the police station's empty corridors. In his office, Chief Ramirez sat hunched over his desk, the weight of recent events bearing down on his shoulders. The dim light from his desk lamp cast harsh shadows across his face, deepening the lines of worry etched there.

"What an absolute mess," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. His thoughts had been circling for hours until he could no longer tell if he was thinking or speaking aloud. "This Reaper, making puppets of us all, dancing to their tune while we scramble to catch shadows... and now our only solution might put Angelo right in the crosshairs." His hands clenched into fists. "If anything happened to that boy... haven't I done enough to him already..."

His restless mind shifted tracks, anger rising in his voice. "And these Infernian bastards!" The word came out as a snarl. "Strutting around with their diplomatic immunity, each one condemning the attack with practiced speeches while their hands drip with our blood!" His fist struck the desk, making his coffee cup rattle. "They think we're blind? That we can't see the puppet masters behind their terrorist pawns?"

His face twisted with disgust. "And these fanatics they've sent - captured but unbroken, wearing their silence like armor. Their damned loyalty makes them twice as dangerous. Won't give up their masters, won't break no matter what we throw at them. Like trying to interrogate statues..."

"Chief Ramirez?"

Officer Vivian's voice cut through his bitter musings, making him start. She stood in the doorway, concern evident in her features. "When was the last time you actually slept, sir?"

Ramirez straightened, trying to gather his scattered composure. "Vivian... I'm fine. Just thinking out loud." The words sounded hollow even to his own ears.

She studied him for a moment before stepping into the office, closing the door with deliberate care. "With all due respect, sir, that's not what 'fine' looks like. Not even close." Taking a seat across from his desk, she leaned forward. "You've been carrying this burden alone long enough. Let someone help shoulder the weight before it breaks you."

The chief shifted uncomfortably in his leather chair, the familiar creaks emphasizing his unease. Years of command warred with the exhaustion evident in every line of his face.

"Sir," Vivian pressed gently, "the department needs its chief whole, not worn to pieces. Whatever's eating at you - let me help. We're facing enough enemies without you battling yourself too."

Her words struck him like a physical blow. He straightened, as if physically pulling himself together piece by piece. "Damn it all, you're right," he admitted, some of his old strength returning to his voice. "We won't solve anything by losing our minds over it. It's just... Plare's proposed solution to our Reaper problem. The cost might be higher than I can bear to pay."

"What kind of solution has you this rattled?" Vivian's brow furrowed with concern.

Ramirez inhaled deeply, the words seeming to pain him. "He wants to set a trap. Using bait our killer couldn't possibly resist - bait that could get someone killed if we're not careful."

Understanding dawned in Vivian's eyes. "Angelo," she breathed, the name hanging heavy in the air. "You're thinking of using the Angel of Death himself as bait?"

"His reputation would draw our killer like a moth to flame," Ramirez confirmed grimly. "The Angel of Death - perfect prey for the Grim Reaper. It's almost poetic, in a twisted way."

Vivian's analytical mind was already racing ahead, pulling apart the plan's weaknesses. "Sir, the logistics alone... how would you even execute something like this? We can't just station Angelo somewhere like a piece of cheese in a mousetrap." Her frown deepened. "More importantly, how would we even signal his location to our target without broadcasting it to the entire city?"

Ramirez's hand froze halfway to his phone, her words hitting him like a bucket of ice water. "Son of a..." He snatched up the receiver, punching in Plare's number with sharp, angry movements.

After what felt like an eternity, Detective Plare picked up.

"Have you made up your mind already, Ramirez?" Plare's gravelly voice carried a hint of amusement. "I thought you might."

"Your brilliant 'bait the Reaper' plan has a gaping hole in it big enough to drive a truck through," Ramirez snapped. "How exactly do you propose we communicate the bait's location to our killer? Should I put out a press release? 'Attention murderer: your target will be here, signed, the police?'"

A long pause followed, broken only by the sound of Plare exhaling cigarette smoke. When he spoke again, there was a smugness in his voice that made Ramirez's teeth grind.

"Tell me, Chief, what's the most powerful force in Novaria?" Before Ramirez could answer, Plare continued, "Rumors. We let the whispers do our work for us."

"Speak plainly, damn it. I'm not in the mood for riddles."

"We seed the story of the Angel of Death's secret training ground," Plare explained, his voice carrying the patience of someone explaining something obvious. "Somewhere remote, isolated - perfect for an ambush, not to mention the target area of choice for the Grim Reaper. Then we wait with our welcome party."

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"Welcome party?" Ramirez's voice rose sharply. "You're talking about putting officers in the line of fire. How many lives are you planning to risk on this gamble?"

"Ten should do it," Plare replied with maddening casualness. "Against an Evolved Auron's tenfold power boost, anything less would be suicide anyway."

"Ten-!" Ramirez exploded, making Vivian jump. "Have you lost your mind? Do you have any concept what pulling that many Auron officers would do to our division? To our ability to protect this city?"

"Less damage than letting this Reaper continue turning our officers into corpses," Plare countered, his voice turning to steel. "But by all means, keep wringing your hands while we die one by one. The longer this drags on, the longer my contract runs, the more I get paid."

The silence that followed was thick enough to cut. Vivian watched the war play out across her chief's features before he finally spoke, each word seeming to cost him.

"You cold-hearted bastard," he ground out. "Fine. We'll try it your way. I'll have my people start working on the rumor mill."

"Look at it this way," Plare's voice softened fractionally. "At least Angelo himself won't be in the crosshairs. Just the rumor of him."

"Unless he catches wind of these whispers himself," Ramirez shot back. "Did that possibility cross that calculating mind of yours? What happens when the Angel of Death decides to investigate reports about his own secret lair?"

"Then your officers play dumb. They're on routine assignment, never heard any rumors, complete ignorance." A pause, then, "Everything in our line of work carries risk, Chief. But doing nothing? Standing still while a predator stalks your people? That's not risk - that's surrender."

After the call ended, Vivian voiced what they were both thinking: "Sir, every instinct I have is screaming that we're walking into something terrible."

"The voice in my gut is shouting the same warning," Ramirez admitted, suddenly looking every one of his years. He stared at the phone as if it might bite him. "But we're running out of options, Vivian. And our people are running out of time."

Vivian nodded gravely, rising from her chair. "I'll start making the arrangements, sir."

As she left, Chief Ramirez turned to the window, watching the last stars fade from the night sky. Soon, they would begin their dangerous gambit. But for now, all he could do was wait and pray they weren't making a terrible mistake.

Morning crept over Novaria, the first rays of sun painting the sky in delicate shades of pink and gold. As early risers began their daily routines, a different kind of awakening was taking place - the careful cultivation of whispers, each one planted with deliberate precision.

The first murmurs started in a bustling coffee shop downtown, where conversations flowed as freely as the espresso. A barista leaned across the counter, her voice pitched just loud enough to catch nearby ears.

> "I shouldn't even be talking about this," she confided to her regular customer, masterfully feigning reluctance. "But my brother's friend - you know, the one in construction? He swears he saw something incredible out by that old factory complex on the outskirts."

>

> Her customer's eyes widened with interest, coffee forgotten. "The abandoned one? Past the city limits?"

>

> "Exactly," the barista nodded, glancing around conspiratorially. "Says he saw someone training there - someone whose aura lit up the whole place orange. And get this - he was throwing energy blasts all around. Like in the videos."

>

> "Wait," another customer chimed in, unable to resist. "You don't think..."

>

> "The Angel of Death," someone whispered, the name spreading through the shop like wildfire. "He has an actual lair?"

The whispers grew legs, racing through social media and text messages, each retelling adding new layers of intrigue. By midday, the rumor had evolved into something with a life of its own.

> "Did you see what's trending?" A teenager nudged his friend, showing his phone screen. "People are saying they've found where the Angel of Death trains!"

>

> "No way!" His friend grabbed the phone, scanning eagerly. "That's insane! We should check it out!"

>

> "Are you crazy?" A third friend interjected, face pale. "What if we actually find him? What if he's really there?"

>

> "Relax," the first teen laughed, though his voice wavered slightly. "He only goes after criminals. We'd be fine... probably."

The rumor continued to spread, each conversation carrying it further, reaching into every corner of Novaria. It infiltrated business lunches, taxi rides, and social gatherings, growing more elaborate with each telling.

This was also true in one of Novaria's most exclusive neighborhoods, where manicured lawns stretched between stately homes, a different kind of gathering was taking place. The afternoon sun streamed through tall windows into an elegantly appointed sitting room, where a group of society women had gathered for their regular tea.

"Speaking of local excitement," one woman said, delicately stirring her Earl Grey, "have you heard the latest about our mysterious vigilante? Apparently, someone's discovered where the Angel of Death conducts his... business."

Across the table, a striking blonde woman looked up, ice-blue eyes catching the light with unusual intensity. "Is that so?" Her voice was honey-smooth, but something sharp lurked beneath the sweetness. "Do tell, Maggie. What has the gossip mill churned out this time?"

"They're saying he has some sort of training ground," another woman eagerly supplied. "In that old industrial complex outside the city. Though really, Jill," she added with a playful smile, "I wouldn't have thought you'd be interested in such... violent characters."

The blonde - Jill - laughed, the sound like wind chimes in winter. "Oh, you know me, Clara. I find all sorts of things... fascinating." She took a careful sip of tea, her perfect smile never quite reaching her eyes. "Though the Angel of Death? Isn't he rather young for my tastes?"

"That's never stopped you before," Clara teased, oblivious to the dangerous glint in Jill's eyes.

"Perhaps not," Jill conceded, her laugh light and musical. But something flickered behind her carefully maintained smile- a hunger that had nothing to do with afternoon tea. "Though really, who puts much stock in rumors these days? They're so often... disappointing."

The conversation drifted to other topics - charity galas and social scandals - but Jill's attention seemed elsewhere, her thoughts clearly running deeper than neighborhood gossip. Her smile remained fixed in place like a beautiful mask, but beneath it lurked something predatory, something that saw the threads of this rumor for exactly what they were.

As afternoon faded toward evening, the bait had been well and truly cast. The question now was not whether it would draw attention, but what kind of hunter might be circling, studying the trap even as it was laid. In offices and homes across Novaria, people continued to spread the tale of the Angel of Death's secret sanctuary, unaware they were playing their parts in a deadly game of cat and mouse.

Yet in that elegant sitting room, behind that perfect smile and those ice-blue eyes, calculations were already being made. The trap had been recognized - but who, exactly, was trapping whom?

The stage was set, the pieces in motion. Now all that remained was to see what manner of predator they had invited to their carefully orchestrated performance - and whether those who had set the trap truly understood what they were calling into their midst.