The opulent ballroom, draped in lavish crimson velvet, was silent now, the revelry of the masquerade replaced by a chilling stillness. Champagne flutes lay abandoned on silver trays, their bubbly contents gone flat, champagne colored napkins stained with a suspicious crimson smear clutched in the hands of frozen dancers. A wave of nausea swept over Inspector Davies as he surveyed the scene, the glitter and gaiety mocking the gruesome tableau before him. The air, thick with the perfume of the guests and the lingering scent of costume makeup, reeked of a far more sinister perfume—the metallic tang of blood and the cloying stench of death. Everything was still and pristine, yet a chilling sight to behold. Hidden behind a crimson curtain, a lifeless figure lay crumpled, its fate veiled in mystery. Just hours before, the ballroom was filled with the noise of laughter and the clacking of heels, mirroring the boisterous energy of the carnival outside. Now, only the riotous whispers of shock and fear dared to break the silence. Beneath the ornate chandelier, a lifeless figure stood out, an unwelcome void against the vibrant backdrop of the party's remnants. A lone figure, dressed in the garb of a nobleman, stood cast in the shadows cast by the now-defunct festive lights, holding a glass stained with a dreadful crimson mark. But as Inspector Davies had seen firsthand, not all is as it seems, especially at a masquerade. As he approached, the weight of the situation pressed down on him, a suffocating blend of the mundane and the macabre. No longer a mere party; a tragedy in shimmering crimson grandeur. On the table, beside the fallen mask and a few scattered tesserae, sat a discarded wine goblet stained with a dark, crimson stain.