Run: 2026-03-25-01KMJ8YXNBQ015RNFEDX1Q5805

The rain fell steadily on the cobblestone path leading to the old Victorian mansion surrounded by overgrown ivy and shadowy trees. Detective Clara Hale stepped from her car, black coat soaked, flashlight cutting through the fog as she approached the iron gate slightly ajar. A single scream had summoned her, though dispatch claimed no emergency call had ever been recorded from this desolate part of the county. She pushed the gate open wider, its hinges screaming in protest, revealing a crooked front porch and shattered lantern light spilling onto the steps. A man in a butler’s uniform lay facedown near the doorway, one hand clutching his chest, the other reaching toward broken glasses. Clara knelt, checked for a pulse, found none, then noticed the silver tray beside him, overturned, with a single bloodied teacup. The house loomed above, windows dark except for one flickering room on the second floor, curtains twitching as if someone had just passed. She stood, drew her sidearm, and advanced slowly, her boots echoing on the wooden planks leading into the silent, gaping front doorway. Inside, the air smelled of damp wallpaper, old cigars, and something metallic—fear, or perhaps fresh blood seeping from beneath a locked door. A grandfather clock in the hall ticked unevenly, stopping suddenly at ten past midnight, though her watch read exactly nine thirty-one p.m. She called out, identified herself, and waited; only silence answered, broken by a faint drip, drip, drip from somewhere deep in the house. Then, from upstairs, a floorboard creaked, followed by the soft closing of a door, deliberate, almost mocking in its precision and timing. Clara moved toward the staircase, each step groaning under her weight, her flashlight beam trembling slightly with the tension in her hand. She reached the top landing, where three doors stood closed, one slightly open, revealing a sliver of red carpet and a woman’s pearl earring. She entered the room, gun raised, and found a vanity cluttered with perfume bottles, a stopped watch, and a single typed note: “You’re too late.”