Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5TD8HKM44G0CPJWVGBDWP

The fog clung to the cobblestones like a shroud, muffling footsteps and whispers alike. A lone streetlamp flickered weakly, casting elongated shadows that danced along the damp brick walls. The clock tower chimed midnight, its mournful tones echoing through the deserted square, signaling the hour of secrets. A gloved hand tightened around a silver locket, its engraving worn smooth by years of hidden torment. The body lay sprawled beneath the bridge, pale fingers curled as if grasping for vanished life. Detective Harlan Vaughn knelt beside the corpse, his sharp eyes noting the single red rose pinned to the victim’s lapel. The scent of jasmine lingered in the air, too sweet, too deliberate, a signature left by someone who craved attention. Vaughn’s partner, Lila Crane, adjusted her glasses and scribbled in her notebook, her breath visible in the cold. "No wallet, no ID," she murmured, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. The rose’s petals were fresh, dew still clinging to them, a cruel contrast to the lifeless form below. Vaughn’s jaw tightened as he spotted the faint bruising around the victim’s throat, the mark of careful, practiced hands. Someone had wanted this death to look like an accident, but the rose betrayed their arrogance. The locket sprang open under Vaughn’s touch, revealing a faded photograph of a woman with hauntingly familiar eyes. Crane gasped, her pen freezing mid-sentence, as recognition dawned like a slow, creeping tide of dread. "We’ve seen her before," Vaughn muttered, snapping the locket shut with a click that echoed like a gunshot. The fog thickened, swallowing the scene whole, as if the city itself conspired to hide the truth.