Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCR9R5GNVM8NSMNR19AQBTY

Rain hammered the greenhouse roof. Inspector Vance hated wet mornings. A body lay among orchids. Blood darkened the potting soil. Someone had arranged her hands. Palms up, fingers gently curled. Vance crouched beside the corpse. Her wristwatch had stopped ticking. Eleven fourteen, glass cracked open. That detail felt too convenient. Sergeant Bell coughed behind him. "The gardener found her, sir." "He is vomiting outside now." Vance studied the smashed pots. Nothing else had been disturbed. Only these, deliberately broken, scattered. Murder rarely bothered making patterns. Who tidies a dead woman? The orchids smelled like funerals. Rain kept falling on glass.