Run: 2026-10-08-01M4DYY7J0FEYPMDK4PZP6DFZH

The rain hammered against the mansion windows that November night. Detective Eleanor Vance stepped carefully across the wet gravel driveway. Nobody in the village had expected trouble at Blackwood Manor ever. Her flashlight beam swept over the ivy-covered stone steps ahead. Officer Thomas Reed waited beside the iron gate, collar turned up. "The body's inside, in the library," he said quietly. Eleanor nodded, though her stomach tightened with unwelcome dread. The heavy oak door stood slightly ajar, creaking in the wind. She pushed it open and stepped into the dim foyer. A grandfather clock ticked somewhere, marking each passing second relentlessly. Dust motes drifted through the thin beam of her light. Thomas followed close behind, his boots echoing on marble tiles. They passed a portrait of Lord Alistair Blackwood, stern and watchful. Its painted eyes seemed to follow them toward the library. At the threshold, Eleanor paused and studied the scene carefully. Lord Blackwood lay slumped across his mahogany desk, motionless. A single silver letter opener protruded from beneath his left shoulder. Beside him, an overturned teacup had stained the expensive Persian rug. "Who found him?" Eleanor asked, not taking her eyes away. "His wife, Margaret," Thomas replied, glancing toward the staircase. Eleanor knelt beside the desk and noticed something peculiar immediately. The ink bottle was open, yet the desk held no letters.