My name is Victor Hudson, and they used to call me "the real-life Sherlock Holmes."
Ninety-nine cases, ninety-nine victories, I thought justice was my solo act.
Until the hundredth time - the young man stood in front of me with a smile, tore up the truth I had painstakingly pieced together page by page, and threw it into the fireplace.
He said: "The most beautiful movement is never a solo piece." The firelight reflected his face, like a conductor bowing at the end of the finale.
I burned my name, fled to the ends of the earth, and buried the past with a violin.
Every night, the sea breeze tore my music into pieces, just as he tore evidence.
Until a tavern owner died in front of me, holding half a piece of paper in his hand.
A Navy lieutenant colonel on crutches stood next to me and said, "I'm with you."
I just understood - there are some things in the past that you can't escape, and there are some people that you have to face.
On the invitation letter from hell, his handwriting was still elegant: "Mr. Andre, welcome back."
This time, I want to put the rest to this piece of music myself.
