Run: 2026-02-25-01KJBDJZTZYBMC6TH9J89A8GQC

The oven timer dinged, cutting through the hum of the refrigerator. Flour dust motes danced in the morning sun, settling on the stainless steel counter. "You heard about the mayor's prize pumpkin?" "The one that vanished from the porch?" "Gone. Like magic." "Magic doesn't eat pie, dear. People do." "Someone left a note. Said it was a warning." "A warning about what? Squash season?" "About the election. They found a dead crow inside." The rolling pin paused mid-press. Dough flattened under the pressure, silent and pale, smelling of warm yeast and butter. "That's not a warning. That's a threat." "Exactly. And the baker knows who left it." "I bake bread, not secrets." "You bake the evidence. You always know who buys the flour." "I don't sell to the mayor." "No, but you sell to his wife. She bought the blueberry muffins yesterday. The ones with the extra sugar." "She always does." "She was crying. Said the crow looked familiar." The door chime rang, signaling a new arrival. Neither turned toward the glass display case, ignoring the customer. "Then we know who's next." "Or who's already gone." The oven light flickered, casting long shadows across the empty stools and the cold coffee.