The rain fell like shattered glass upon the cobblestone street, each drop echoing through the silent, gaslit neighborhood with deliberate precision and chilling intent. Detective Marlowe stepped from his battered trench coat into the alley’s cold embrace, hat low, eyes scanning shadows that seemed too thick for mere night. A single crimson footprint led toward the body sprawled beneath the flickering lamplight, its owner frozen in final gasp, coat splayed like broken wings. The victim’s pocket watch lay cracked at 11:03, hands stilled mid-tick as if frozen by the very moment death had claimed its due. Neighbors peered through lace curtains, breath fogging glass, whispering names of strangers who'd passed through town with eyes too sharp and smiles too wide. Marlowe knelt, gloved fingers brushing a scrap of velvet ribbon, deep blue, tied in an old sailor’s knot known only to coastal espionage rings. No wallet, no identification, just a playing card—the ace of spades—slipped between stiff fingers, its corner singed as if kissed by fire. A child’s laughter rang from around the bend, too bright for the hour, cutting through mist before vanishing like a dream upon waking. He pocketed the card, noting the faint scent of bergamot and poison lingering beneath the rain, a perfume worn by women with dangerous secrets. The constable stammered a report, voice trembling, claiming the door had been locked from within, no windows broken, no signs of forced entry. Marlowe stared at the house, its ivy-clad walls pulsing with unseen breath, knowing this was no simple killing but a message carved in silence.