Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5SJ5KGR08DHCA0FSGKXQV

The storm howled outside as Detective Morgan stepped into the dimly lit parlor, rain dripping from her coat. Shadows danced eerily across the walls, revealing antique furniture draped in dusty white sheets, untouched for years. A single lantern flickered on the mantelpiece, casting long, twisting shadows that seemed to whisper secrets. In the center of the room lay a body, sprawled unnaturally, its face frozen in a mask of terror. Blood pooled beneath the figure, seeping into the ornate rug, staining its intricate patterns crimson. Morgan knelt, examining the wound, her sharp eyes noting every detail, every clue the killer had left behind. The air smelled of damp wood and iron, mingling with the faint scent of perfume gone stale. A shattered teacup lay nearby, its shards glinting like tiny daggers in the weak, wavering light. On the table, a letter lay half-burned, its edges charred, the handwriting hasty, desperate, and barely legible. The clock on the wall ticked ominously, each second echoing like a drumbeat in the oppressive silence. Morgan’s fingers brushed against a torn photograph, its edges jagged, revealing faces smiling in happier times, now lost. The wind outside growled louder, rattling the windows as if warning her to leave before it was too late. She straightened, her gaze scanning the room, each object telling a fragment of a story yet untold. The killer was here, she knew, their presence lingering like a shadow in the corners of the room. She turned to the doorway, her hand resting on her holster, ready for whatever—or whoever—awaited her next. The storm outside roared louder, drowning out everything but the sound of her own pounding heartbeat, relentless and deafening.