The dim alley air hung heavy with the scent of brine and refuse. A lone figure lay sprawled across the wet cobblestones, unmoving and quite still. Crimson stained the torn fabric of his expensive silk shirt quite visibly. Constable Miller, with a sigh, surveyed the grim scene before him now. He’d seen many deaths in this grimy part of town before. This particular tableau, however, felt disturbingly more significant and profoundly chilling. A single, blood-speckled glove lay clutched tightly within his lifeless, cold hand. Detective Harding, arriving moments later, surveyed the scene with sharp, astute eyes. He immediately knelt beside the victim, his brow furrowed with deep concern. "Tell me, Miller," Harding began, his voice low, "exactly what do we have?"