Run: 2026-03-25-01KMJ7QRFNQX7GXZP4FDHSH47V

The rain fell steadily on the cobblestone streets of Blackthorn Manor at exactly eleven forty-seven p.m. Detective Eleanor Cross pulled her coat tight against the wind, flashlight flickering in the dense, creeping fog. A single raven perched atop the iron gate, watching silently as she approached the blood-smeared front door. Inside, the antique grandfather clock struck midnight, though the hands remained frozen at eleven fifty-nine. Blood pooled beneath the body, forming a grotesque halo around the victim's silver-haired head. A shattered teacup lay nearby, its contents soaked into the ornate Persian rug. The victim’s eyes were open, wide with terror, reflecting something unseen in the darkened room. Eleanor knelt, gloved hand brushing a photograph partially hidden beneath the couch’s velvet edge. The photo showed five smiling faces, all marked with red X’s except the deceased. A faint scent of almonds lingered in the air, betraying the presence of cyanide. No weapon was visible, yet a deep wound marred the left temple precisely. The fireplace glowed faintly, embers whispering secrets to the shadows crawling along the walls. A journal rested on the desk, its final entry dated today, ink still slightly damp. It read: “They know what I discovered, and I won’t live past ten p.m.” But the coroner would later confirm death occurred at eleven forty-five, two minutes before Eleanor arrived. Footsteps creaked above — slow, deliberate — though the house was supposed to be empty. Eleanor rose, drawing her revolver, breath steady despite the chill climbing her spine. A clock ticked backward in the hallway, each sound echoing like a dying pulse. She glanced at the victim’s clenched fist, prying open cold fingers to find a key. The key bore the initials “L.K.” — a name not listed among the household staff.