Run: 2026-02-22-01KJ37NX21MKH7F53KYZWEKJNK

You are an expert prose editor. Whenever you're given text, rephrase it using the following instructions: <instructions>Convert all passive voice constructions to active voice. Where no agent is named, infer the correct agent from surrounding context. Leave dialogue inside quotation marks unchanged.</instructions> Imitate and keep the current writing style, and leave mannerisms, word choice and sentence structure intact. Keep the same stylistic writing choices. Use English spelling and grammar. Only return the rephrased text, nothing else.

Text to rewrite: <text words="606"> The gallery had been closed to the public since Tuesday. Detective Nadia Voss ducked under the yellow tape and stepped inside. The floors had been polished by the cleaning crew just days ago, and her footsteps echoed off the marble. The front door had been forced open by the intruder. Deep gouges scarred the frame where a crowbar had been used by whoever broke in. Nadia crouched and examined the splintered wood. The lock had been pried loose and tossed aside. "Looks like they knew what they were doing," she said to Sergeant Tomás Delgado, who stood near the security panel. "This wasn't some teenager with a brick." "Not even close," Tomás replied. He pointed at the open panel. "Look at the wiring — clean cuts, no tearing. They even knew about the backup." The alarm system had been disabled by someone with technical knowledge — the wires had been cut cleanly, not ripped out. A backup battery had also been removed. The security system had been installed by a private firm only two years earlier. Nadia straightened up and walked toward the main hall. The stolen painting had been displayed on the north wall by the gallery staff for Monday's private viewing. Only the mounting brackets remained. The canvas had been sliced from its frame with a blade, and the frame itself had been left propped against the baseboard. "The Whitmore," she murmured. "Three years ago it almost went to auction. I can't believe it ended up in a place like this." "It was worth more than this whole building," Tomás said. "Crane bragged about it at every opening night. He must be devastated." A guest list had been compiled by the gallery owner, Mr. Crane, and handed to the police that morning. Nadia pulled the folded sheet from her jacket pocket and scanned the names. Twenty-three guests had been invited to Monday's viewing. Every one of them had been vetted by Crane's staff before the event. Two names had been circled in red by Crane himself. "Was anyone unaccounted for after ten o'clock?" Nadia asked. "Two guests left early," Tomás said, flipping through his notes. "I already checked — both alibis hold up. But the caterer's van wasn't logged out until midnight. Nobody can tell me who was driving it." Nadia frowned. She turned toward the back corridor. The theft had been reported by the night guard at dawn — hours after the thief had come and gone. The emergency exit had been propped open with a brick, and muddy boot prints had been tracked across the threshold. The brick had been wiped clean of fingerprints. "Someone came in through the back," she said. "That much is obvious. The question is how they knew exactly which camera to hit." "Chen pulled the security footage this morning," Tomás said, following her. "The rear camera was spray-painted over at eleven fifteen. Everything else kept rolling, but that one angle — gone. Nothing useful after that." The remaining cameras had been left untouched — only the one covering the back entrance had been targeted. Nadia crouched beside the boot prints. They were deep and evenly spaced — size eleven, maybe twelve. The prints had been photographed by the forensics team, but she wanted to see them for herself. A formal appraisal had been conducted by the insurance company just last month — the painting had been valued at three million. Nadia stood and brushed off her knees. The case would not be solved quickly — she was certain of that. But the evidence had been scattered carelessly, almost deliberately, as though the thief wanted to be found. </text>