The crimescene was bathed in the chill of night's embrace, eerie silence. Detective Larkins arrived, her keen eyes scanning the body sprawled, lifeless. Forensic team bustled, collecting evidence with precision, purpose in their work. The victim, once a promising young artist, now lay unmoving, unseeing. Rigor mortis had not yet set in, but death's chill appeared. Bruno Maller's studio was a mess of paints and anguish, turmoil. His once vibrant creations now smeared in stark red, dripping crimson. Larkins knelt to examine, noting details with practiced observation skills honed. The dagger's silver flashed under harsh lights, blood a marred reflection. This was no suicide, no accident; here was deliberate malice inflicted. A twisted killer stalked the streets, leaving death on display untened.