Detective Jameson stepped out of the rain and into the grand foyer of Oakwood Manor, a chill down his spine. The air was heavy with the scent of old money and decay, a potent mix that clung to everything. A butler, stiff and unyielding, stood before him, eyes fixed on the detective's sodden coat and hat with disdain. The sound of whispering voices carried from the room beyond, a hushed and urgent conversation that sent a shiver. A chandelier, its crystals refracting the dim light, cast an eerie glow over the assembled group of strangers nearby. The detective's gaze swept the room, taking in the nervous faces and the sense of unease that hung palpable. A woman, her face ashen and her eyes red-rimmed, stood at the edge of the group, her silence screaming. A door creaked open to the side, and a man, his face twisted in a grimace, stumbled into the room. A faint scent of smoke and blood wafted in behind him, a morbid perfume that clung to his clothes. The butler's voice, a low and practiced tone, spoke the words that would change everything: "The master is dead."