The old mansion stood silently at the end of Blackwood Lane, its windows dark like the eyes of a skull. Detective Sarah Chen arrived at precisely eleven fifteen that evening, her boots crunching against the gravel of the long winding driveway ahead. A single light flickered behind the curtain on the second floor, casting strange and eerie shadows that danced across the lawn. The front door hung open just a few inches, revealing nothing but an impenetrable darkness that seemed almost alive and breathing. She pushed it wider with her gloved hand, and the smell of copper and roses hit her like a freight train. On the marble floor of the grand foyer lay the body of billionaire Marcus Webb, his silk robe soaked completely in blood. His eyes were open wide, frozen in an expression of pure terror, as though he had seen something truly beyond comprehension. A shattered crystal glass rested near his outstretched fingers, and deep red wine had pooled and mixed with the thickening blood. Sarah knelt beside the body and noticed something unusual clutched tightly in his other hand, a small torn piece of paper. Written on it in his own trembling handwriting were just three words that would change the entire course of this investigation.