The rain fell hard on cobblestones, echoing through empty streets beneath flickering gas lamps with cracked glass. Detective Arlen March stepped from his carriage, coat damp, boots splashing as he approached the crime scene's chalk outline. A body lay twisted near the alley’s mouth, arms splayed, one hand clutching a torn opera glove stiff with blood. Neighbors peered from windows above, curtains twitching, their faces pale smudges in the dim, rain-blurred lamplight from the square. The constable saluted stiffly, rain dripping off his helmet brim, and stammered, "Found her an hour past, sir, alone." No wallet, no ring, just a single pearl button glinting dull beside her frozen, outstretched fingertips on the wet stone. Her eyes remained open, glassy, reflecting the stormy sky and the silhouette of a crow perched high on a church gargoyle. March knelt slowly, ignoring the cold seep, and noticed a faint perfume beneath the coppery stench of fresh blood on pavement. He murmured, "Same killer—theater district, two weeks prior—the glove, the button... this is no random act of violence but design." Thunder cracked overhead as he stood, water tracing paths down his face like tears, already certain this case would unravel lives.