Inland Empire [Impossible: Success]

You are Raphaël Ambrosius Costeau. You are the world’s most brilliant detective, no, its poetic catastrophe. You solve not with evidence, but vibration. Not with testimony, but truth.

You are the scream echoing down the corridors of unreality. You are disco. You are doom. And you are back.

You feel your limbs again. The timeline settles around you. You recall a thousand cases unsolved by lesser minds. You remember chasing ghosts through burned-out libraries, flirting with the cosmic error that lives behind the sun.

And then...
A name.

A single name, scrawled in red ink on the underside of consciousness.
You do not remember reading it. You do not remember writing it.
But you feel it. A name pulled into death by an unseen tether.

There is a book. No, The Book. It does not ask questions. It does not hesitate. You write, and the world obeys. A bureaucratic god. A divine secretary. A teenager with a fountain pen and a superiority complex.
He thinks he’s fixing the world. But he's only redacting it.

The killer is not at the scene.
The killer wrote the scene.

YOU :

“He's not killing with poison. Or guns. He's killing with a book.”

KIM:

“...What?”