The rain has a way of making everything feel heavier—the sky, the streets, even your thoughts. Tonight is no exception.
The detective's car hums along the slick, winding road that leads to Holloway Estate, headlights cutting through the mist that clings to the treeline like a shroud. Dispatch only gave him the basics:
Victim: Eleanor Holloway.
Status: Deceased, apparent homicide.
Witnesses: Three household staff members and her husband.
As the detective pull up to the wrought-iron gates. The mansion looms in the distance, its towering windows glowing faintly like watchful eyes. As you step out, boots crunching on wet gravel, he feel the storm's cold breath on his neck. This isn't just another case he can sense it. Something in the air feels wrong.
Inside, the Holloway Estate is a cathedral of wealth. Marble floors reflect the crystal chandelier light, and expensive oil paintings glare down at him from the walls. But even money can't hide fear.
A nervous-looking butler greets him, wringing his hands.
"Detective… thank God you're here. Mrs. Holloway—she's in the study."
He nod, scanning the hallway. Everything is pristine… except for a trail of muddy footprints leading toward the back staircase. Odd—someone either arrived in a hurry or left that way. He file it in the back of his mind.
The study door is half open. A uniformed officer waits outside, hat in hand, his face pale.
"Never seen anything like this," he mutters as he step past him.
And then he see it.
Eleanor Holloway lies slumped over her mahogany desk, a half-empty glass of wine spilled across scattered papers. Blood pools beneath her head, but the wound isn't obvious—not until the detective circle around and notice a thin red silk ribbon tied tightly around her wrist. It's immaculate, deliberate, not stained by blood. Almost… placed there.
The shattered wineglass lies on the carpet near her chair. A single sheet of paper sits apart from the rest, marked with four words in jagged handwriting:
"Red lies beneath the veil.
Detective exhale slowly, every instinct telling him this wasn't just murder—it was a message.
Before he can inspect further, he hear movement behind you. Richard Holloway, the grieving husband, steps into the doorway, his face pale but his eyes oddly dry.
Richard Holloway: "Detective… who could do this to Eleanor?"
Detective watch him carefully, noting the way his gaze lingers not on his wife's body but on the spilled wine, as though remembering something he shouldn't.
He glance at the ribbon again. A ritual? A signature? A warning?
One thing is certain: this is no ordinary crime scene.