Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB3GQKV8Q4386SEBW0B15T

The rain lashed against the grimy windows of the old Victorian mansion, its hollow echoes drowning out every other sound inside. Detective Eleanor Vane adjusted her damp coat, fingers brushing the cold brass of her revolver as she stepped into the foyer. A single candle flickered weakly, casting long shadows that seemed to whisper secrets across the peeling wallpaper. The butler’s stiff posture betrayed nothing, though his knuckles whitened around the silver tray he clutched with trembling precision. "The master’s been found," he murmured, voice barely audible over the storm’s relentless drumming against the panes. Bloodstained letters littered the marble floor, their ink smeared as if someone had fought desperately to leave a message. Eleanor’s breath hitched—this wasn’t just a murder; it was a puzzle, and every clue had already begun to unravel. The air smelled of gunpowder and something sweeter, like overripe cherries left to rot in the summer’s cruel embrace. A grand piano stood silent in the corner, its keys yellowed with age, as if waiting for a final, unfinished symphony. Outside, the wind howled like a mournful chorus, carrying the scent of distant smoke from the city’s industrial heart. The butler’s gaze flickered toward the staircase, where a single boot remained abandoned, its sole scuffed with recent haste. Eleanor knelt, tracing the initials carved into the wood—*E.V.*—but the letters were too fresh, too deliberate. Someone had wanted her to see them, to understand this was no random crime, but a personal invitation. The mansion’s creaking floorboards groaned underfoot, as though the house itself held its breath, guarding its darkest secrets. A pocket watch lay shattered near the threshold, its gears scattered like broken promises across the threshold’s cracked stone. The detective’s pulse quickened—time had stopped here, frozen in the moment of a killer’s triumphant, final decision. Shadows stretched unnaturally long, as if the very light conspired to hide what lay beyond the next darkened hallway’s turn. The butler’s lips parted, but no words came, only the ghost of a name—*"Lydia"*—whispered on a breath too faint to be real. Eleanor’s mind raced; Lydia was the master’s estranged sister, last seen arguing violently in the local tavern just hours before. The fire in the hearth had gone cold, its embers smoldering like the dying embers of a lie someone had carefully nurtured. A music box tinkled softly from the drawing room, its tune warped by time, playing a lullaby no child had sung in decades. The detective’s instincts screamed—this wasn’t the work of a stranger, but someone who knew the house, its rhythms, its hidden places. The butler’s hands shook as he pressed a yellowed photograph into her palm, its edges singed as if rescued from flames. Inside, a young man smiled back, his eyes too familiar, too haunting, bearing a striking resemblance to the victim sprawled upstairs. The storm’s fury outside mirrored the chaos swirling in Eleanor’s thoughts, each clue a thread pulling her deeper into a web. A single glove lay discarded near the body, its embroidered monogram matching the initials on the staircase—*E.V.*—but the fabric was too fine. The detective’s stomach twisted—this wasn’t just a murder; it was a confession, a game, and she was the only one left to play.