Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9W91DAEWES0GY1TCS4PCR

Fog pressed against Harbor Street, muffling footsteps at midnight sharp. Detective Mara Quinn watched the lighthouse blink, once, twice, then. A scream dissolved quickly, swallowed by waves and distant engines. She found the pier gate open, chain snapped cleanly tonight. On wet planks lay Councilman Hargrove, face down, unmoving still. His silver pocketwatch ticked loudly, stopped exactly at twelve minutes. A single glove rested nearby, stitched with crimson initial M. Mara crouched, smelling cordite, brine, and expensive cologne mingled here. Footprints led toward town, but ended beside a moored skiff. Behind her, someone whispered, 'Detective,' and clicked a safety off.