Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1H0VFND0VRP8CQ4ZX0C2VW

Rain needled the manor windows as guests arrived, clutching invitations embossed with black roses and the promise of reconciliation. Inside, candlelight trembled above silver trays while old grievances circulated politely, disguised as compliments, laughter, and inquiries about health. At precisely eight, the host descended smiling, though his valet noticed crimson on one cuff and fear behind charm. No one mentioned the storm-stranded bridge until thunder silenced conversation, and the library door eased open by itself. Then Mrs. Vale screamed, pointing inward, where Sir Alistair lay across the Persian rug, throat cut, wedding ring missing.