**The rain fell in silver sheets over Blackthorn Manor, its ancient stones glistening like the tears of long-dead ghosts.** The grand oak doors groaned open as Detective Elias Vane stepped inside, his polished shoes clicking against the marble floor. A chandelier flickered above, casting jagged shadows that danced like restless spirits across the walls. The butler, a gaunt man with hollow eyes, stood motionless, his gloved hands clutching a silver tray. "The master is dead," he whispered, his voice trembling like a leaf in the autumn wind. Vane’s breath caught as he followed the butler’s gaze to the study, where a pool of crimson spread. The victim lay sprawled across the Persian rug, his glassy stare fixed on the ceiling as if searching for answers. A single playing card—the ace of spades—rested on his chest, its edges stained with something darker than ink. The air smelled of gunpowder and old books, a scent that clung to Vane’s coat like a second skin. Outside, thunder rumbled, shaking the windows as if the storm itself were warning him to turn back. But Vane had never been one to heed warnings, not when a puzzle this dark demanded solving.