Detective James Murphy stepped out into the gloomy street. Rain pelted down, washing over cobblestones. He pulled up his collar, squinting down the alleyway. And there, just beyond the viaduct, was the old abandoned warehouse. Abandoned, but not empty, it seemed, for the door swung open as if in invitation. James stepped across the rain-soaked street, heading towards the door. The dark doorway loomed before him, antique iron work glinting in the rain. He reached out, pushing the door open further, cold fingers finding its edge. Then, pushing away the rain, entering the dark space within. Inside, the air hung heavy with dust, hung heavy with fear. James strode forward, footsteps ringing out, echoes bouncing off metal walls. In the center stood the trapdoor, round and old, wooden and ancient. Lightning crackled outside, briefly blinding James. His pulse quickened as thunder growled in the distance, somehow settling in the pit of his stomach. He could feel it now, the fear. Clutching at his throat, his heart pounded wildly. It was as if the very air was holding its breath, all of it waiting in anticipation. He leaned down, reaching for the ringed handle in the trapdoor's center. Hauling the door up, he lifted with all his strength, until it popped open with a groan. A smell alright, noxious and sickly. It washed over him like a wave, gagging him on the spot. Quickly dropping down, James looked piercing into the dark hole, peering into its depths. There, at the bottom, something sat, motionless and grim, silent and still. It was a figure, or rather half one, all sprawled out across the floor. James swallowed hard and stepped near again. And dropped down, feetfirst, just landing tenderly near. The figure was half-eaten, and partial consumed. He choked back a partial nausea, feeling the hidden anxiety. Near the body, a clue, a note of some sort, possibly a rip or two. And so, his investigation must begin, drawing him into the dark heart.