Rain hammered the cobblestones, echoing through empty streets like distant drums. Detective Vale pulled his coat tighter, squinting at the flickering gaslight. A scream pierced the night, sharp, sudden, and violently brief. He sprinted toward the alley, boots splashing through grimy puddles. There, beneath a shattered lantern, lay Eleanor Briggs, still. Her pearls were scattered, glowing faintly in the pale moonlight. Blood seeped slowly, painting dark flowers on her ivory dress. One glove was missing; the other gripped a torn letter. No footprints led away—only rain, silence, and mystery. Vale whispered, “Someone didn’t want her secrets to leave.”