Rain slicked the grimy cobblestones, reflecting the gaslight’s melancholic glow. A chilling wind whispered through the alley, carrying the stench of damp earth. Lord Ashworth lay sprawled awkwardly, a crimson bloom staining his pristine white evening shirt. His monocle, usually perched jauntily, had shattered beside his unseeing sapphire eye. A small, ornate silver letter opener protruded precisely from his still chest. Footsteps squelched softly in the nearby puddle, approaching with measured urgency. Detective Inspector Thorne’s trench coat billowed dramatically as he surveyed the gruesome scene. A single, perfectly preserved white orchid lay delicately near Ashworth’s pale outstretched hand. Thorne knelt slowly, his keen eyes scanning every minute, revealing detail. The air hung heavy with the grim finality of recent, terrible violence.