Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1JD8T7B1BWRR2VGQRFMBNX

Rain hammered Blackthorn Hall as mourners gathered beneath cracked gargoyles. Lady Wren arrived last, wearing pearls and an unreadable smile. Inside, candles trembled around portraits with eyes too knowing. The clock struck nine, and every servant flinched simultaneously. A scream split dinner's hush from somewhere beyond the library. When they entered, Lord Ashcombe lay dead beside chessmen. One white king rested in his open palm, bloodied. No window stood open, yet autumn leaves covered carpets. Detective Vale removed his gloves and studied each shocked face. Then thunder answered softly, as though the house approved.