Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1GAMWH8AQR9K9SPK8C1RPH

Rain hammered Blackthorn Hall as mourners gathered, their umbrellas trembling beneath a sky bruised purple by the approaching midnight storm. Inside, the grandfather clock struck twelve, and every portrait seemed to flinch while candlelight crawled over polished walnut walls. Lady Wren Ashcombe smiled too brightly at dinner, raising her crystal glass moments before collapsing across the linen. No one moved at first; then screams rose sharp and sudden, drowning the violin and silencing the servants. Detective Elias Vale, uninvited but nearby, stepped from the vestibule shadows, already counting faces, lies, and half-finished toasts. Upon the silver tray beside Lady Wren's limp hand rested a foxglove blossom, wet with spilled burgundy. The guests exchanged brittle glances, because everyone knew the conservatory had been locked since the gardener's funeral. Vale bent close, studying her lips, then the room, where grief mingled uneasily with calculation, fear, and opportunity. Outside, thunder rolled again, sealing Blackthorn Hall from the world, while somewhere upstairs a door clicked softly. By dawn, one of them would confess nothing, another would disappear, and the dead woman would keep accusing.