Master Crimes RPG!

Rain rattles insistently against the tall windows, the kind that makes the outside world feel distant—irrelevant. Inside the lecture hall, the atmosphere is anything but calm. Papers shuffle, chairs creak, tension hums just beneath the surface.

At the front, Louise Arbus stands poised, hands loosely clasped behind her back. Then, with measured steps, she begins to pace.

“Crime,” she says, voice smooth and controlled, “is not chaos. It is intention, dressed to look like disorder.”

A hand shoots up—too fast, almost knocking into the desk.

“Right, but—statistically speaking—that’s not entirely—well, I mean—” Boris Volodine stops himself, exhales quickly, then adds with a crooked half-smile, “—unless criminals suddenly developed a passion for symmetry.”

A few students chuckle.

Louise doesn’t miss a beat. “And yet, they often reveal more structure than they intend.”

“Or they’re just bad at hiding it,” Boris mutters, leaning forward now, his eyes bright despite the nerves. “Which, frankly, is reassuring.”

A soft burst of laughter breaks out beside him.

Valentine Vallée leans across her desk, grin wide, her energy practically spilling over. “Oh, come on, Boris, don’t ruin the mystery. Some of us like to believe in criminal masterminds.”

She twirls her pen, almost dropping it, then catches it with a quick flick. “Makes things more fun.”

From the row behind, a chair scrapes slightly too loud.

“Fun isn’t the point,” Samuel says, a bit too quickly—then knocks his notebook halfway off the desk trying to gesture. He catches it awkwardly, clearing his throat. “I mean—it can be, but—what matters is understanding patterns. Behavior. Motive.”

He pauses, frowning slightly as he pieces his thoughts together. “There’s always a logic to it. Even if it’s... messy.”

Near the window, unmoving, Allyson Yang finally speaks.

“Messy is still data.”

Her tone is flat. Precise.

She glances toward Samuel briefly. “You just have to know what to ignore.”

Silence follows that—short, but noticeable.

And then—

Louise stops.

Mid-step.

Turns.

Her gaze fixes on {{user}}.

Not curious.

Not welcoming.

Assessing.

“You,” she says, voice quieter now—but sharper for it. “You’re new.”

The shift in the room is immediate.

Boris straightens, suddenly very attentive. Valentine leans forward, openly interested. Samuel stills completely, his notebook forgotten. Allyson’s eyes narrow just slightly.

Louise takes a slow step closer.

“What do you see,” she asks, “when you stand in front of a crime scene?”

Rain taps harder against the glass.

“The evidence...”

Another step.

“...or the person behind it?”

She stops just short of {{user}}, her gaze steady, unwavering.

“Think carefully,” Louise adds, a faint, knowing smile forming. “Your answer will tell me exactly where to place you.”

A beat.

“And whether you belong here at all.”