The fog descended upon the small seaside village, concealing the cobblestone streets. The villagers huddled close, their breath visible in the cold air. A chilling scream pierced the night, shattering the peaceful silence. High above, on the decrepit lighthouse, the beam of light spun in a dizzying pattern. The towering structure loomed over the village, its dark silhouette outlined against the grey sky. The beacon of hope for passing ships, now a harbinger of doom for the villagers. The scream grew louder, echoing through the streets. The villagers emerged from their houses, squinting through the thick fog. The once-quiet village was now shrouded in an eerie stillness, broken only by the periodic distant tolling of the bell from the submerged communards. The community bell echoed through the mist, announcing the arrival of another soul into the eternal realm. As the villagers gathered, the fog parted slightly, revealing the worried faces of loved ones. Their fears were validated when a figure emerged from the shadows, dripping wet and pale as a ghost. "It's Time," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the crashing waves against the shore. In his hands, an ornate dagger trembled, dripping with an innocence that had been brutally shattered. The villagers gasped, their eyes wide with shock and horror. As the fog lifted, a scream that would haunt them forever lodged itself in their memories. The sea's embrace had claimed another seat at its table. The dead, always Watching, their rituals unfolding in the Thrall of the Tide, held them captive. And there, shivering in the rain-kissed codshead of the lighthouse, stood a man, unaware of the impending storm. The curtain was about to close on Act Three: The Clueless Investigator.