**The rain fell in silver sheets over Blackthorn Manor, its iron gates groaning like a dying man’s last breath.** The butler stood frozen in the grand foyer, his gloved hands trembling as he clutched a bloodstained letter addressed to the late Lord Harrow. A single candle flickered on the mahogany desk, casting long shadows that twisted like accusing fingers across the Persian rug. The grand clock in the hall struck midnight, its chime echoing through the empty corridors where no one dared to walk. Outside, a figure in a tattered overcoat watched from the garden, their breath misting in the cold as they tightened their grip on a rusted revolver. The library door creaked open just enough to reveal a pair of polished shoes, one scuffed with something dark and wet. A whisper slithered through the house—*"He’s already dead, and you’re next"*—before the lights flickered out completely. The scent of gunpowder and old leather hung thick in the air, mixing with the metallic tang of fresh blood seeping into the carpet fibers. Somewhere upstairs, a woman screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the storm raging against the stained-glass windows. The detective arrived just as the first police constable knelt beside the body, his face pale as he realized this was no ordinary murder. A single playing card—the ace of spades—lay pinned to the victim’s chest with a silver dagger, its blade still glinting under the dim gaslight. The housekeeper swore she’d seen the victim alive just minutes before, yet his skin was already cold as marble when they turned him over. A locked study held the only clue: a ledger with names crossed out in crimson ink, the most recent entry bearing tonight’s date. The wind howled through the broken pane, carrying with it the faintest trace of perfume—something expensive, something familiar to those who knew the victim’s secrets. By dawn, the truth would unravel, but for now, the manor stood silent, its secrets buried beneath the weight of the storm.