The old Victorian mansion stood silently at the end of Blackwood Lane, its windows dark against the stormy night sky. Detective Sarah Chen stepped out of her car, rain immediately soaking through her worn trench coat and leather boots completely. She had received the call exactly forty-seven minutes ago, a frantic voice whispering about blood and shadows before disconnecting abruptly. The front door creaked open slowly, revealing a grand foyer where a crystal chandelier cast fractured light across marble floors. A butler stood motionless near the staircase, his face pale as death itself, one trembling hand pointing toward the library. Sarah followed his silent direction, her footsteps echoing through the empty hallway lined with portraits of stern-faced family ancestors watching. The library door was already ajar, and the unmistakable copper scent of fresh blood hung heavily in the cold air. Winston Blackwood, the wealthy patriarch worth billions, lay sprawled across his mahogany desk, a letter opener buried in his chest. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, mouth frozen open as if his final words had been stolen before spoken. Sarah noticed the window was locked from inside, and no other entrance existed into this room filled with ancient books.