In the main room, the guests waited silently to be called.
The air felt heavy and suffocating as the glowing timers above their heads continued counting down, second by second.
Then the system spoke.
"Number Two, you may enter."
The maid froze as a blue screen unfolded before her eyes.
Main Quest: Find your child's murderer before he confesses.
Optional Quest: Uncover the secrets of your masters.
She did not even consider the second option.
"I'll find the killer of my child," she whispered.
What kind of mother would choose anything else?
The Murder Room was silent and dimly lit, filled with dust-covered furniture and towering shelves of ancient books. She looked around nervously, trying to understand what the system wanted her to find.
Then...
A faint creaking sound.
Her eyes lowered to the floor.
Near the corner of the room, hidden beneath a faded rug, was a trapdoor.
Her brows furrowed.
A trapdoor? Here?
Slowly, she pulled the rug aside. Old wooden panels stared back at her, worn with age. Cold air seeped through the cracks.
Her heart began pounding.
Pum.
She grabbed the rusted handle.
Pum. Pum.
The sound grew louder inside her chest.
Pum. Pum. Pum.
It felt as though her heart was trying to warn her to stop.
But she couldn't.
She pulled the trapdoor open. It creaked loudly as darkness revealed itself beneath her feet. A narrow staircase descended deep below the villa.
The maid hesitated only a moment before stepping down.
Step by step, she descended deeper underground. The silence around her felt unnatural. Only the sound of her breathing and the pounding of her heart echoed through the passage.
Pum. Pum. Pum.
Finally, she reached another door. She pushed it open carefully.
Her eyes widened.
From the other side, the hidden entrance blended perfectly into the wall itself, invisible to anyone who did not already know to look.
"How many secrets does this villa hide…?" she whispered.
She stepped farther inside.
The basement.
No.
The old kitchen.
Dust coated the counters. Rusted pots hung from hooks above the ceiling. The smell of mold lingered heavily in the cold air. No one used this kitchen anymore.
No one except the cook.
Then she saw him.
Standing near the counter beneath the weak yellow light.
The cook.
And in his hand...
a ring.
The world stopped.
Her legs stopped moving. Her breath stopped entirely. Her hands, steady until now, began to tremble at her sides.
That ring.
Silver. Small. Worn smooth at the edges from years of being held and turned over and pressed between small loving fingers.
And then the memory came.
Not gently.
It came the way grief always comes when it has been waiting long enough.
All at once.