If Lord Morcant’s death had been a quiet mess, the trap to catch his killer needed to be loud enough to draw attention—but clean enough to leave no doubt.

  Elena didn’t like theatrics. But she knew how to use them.

  So she set the stage.

  The grand salon had been chosen for its symmetry—arched windows, a high vaulted ceiling, and just enough marble to make everyone’s footsteps feel self-conscious. Under the pretense of a private memorial for Lord Morcant, a crowd of nobles and courtiers had been summoned. Wine flowed. Conversations hummed. No one noticed the invisible strings being pulled.

  At the edge of the room, Elena sipped watered-down champagne and waited.

  “You’re sure this is the best use of public resources?” Ashcroft muttered beside her, arms crossed, jaw clenched like it had never known softness.

  “Feel free to leave,” Elena replied, her tone mild. “I’m sure the killer will turn himself in after dessert.”

  Ashcroft gave a grunt that might’ve been agreement or indigestion.

  Across the room, Adrian moved like a shadow—checking timing, rerouting a footman, planting the falsified ledger and a forged envelope inside the study’s desk. The bait was in place.

  Elena adjusted her gloves and glanced at the guest list Adrian had handed her ten minutes earlier.

  “Tobias is here,” she said, more to herself than anyone. “And he’ll bite.”

  “Because murderers can’t resist double-checking their cleanup?” Ashcroft asked dryly.

  Elena smiled. “Because arrogant men hate unfinished paperwork.”

  —

  Twenty minutes later, Tobias Greene slipped out of the salon.

  He moved like a man who knew how to disappear—quiet shoes, neutral posture, head dipped just enough to seem unremarkable. But Elena had already left her post. She was waiting in the corridor outside the study, one foot crossed over the other, eyes fixed on the brass doorknob.

  When Tobias emerged, he paused—just a second too long.

  “Lose something, Mr. Greene?” Elena asked.

  He offered her a smile that no longer reached his eyes. “Just reminiscing.”

  “Of course.” Her gaze dipped to the sealed envelope peeking from his coat. “Taking souvenirs, too?”

  Tobias opened his mouth—probably to lie—but the click of polished boots silenced him.

  Ashcroft stepped forward, expression grim.

  “Tobias Greene,” he said, voice low but firm. “You’re under investigation for falsifying financial records, obstructing an inquiry, and your role in the murder of Lord Cedric Morcant. You are not to leave the premises.”

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  Elena stepped closer, her voice steady.

  “We know about the sedative. We know you paid the stablehand to pose in your place at the tavern. And now—thanks to your own paranoia—we know you couldn’t resist checking whether Morcant left anything behind.”

  Tobias looked between them. For the first time, his mask cracked.

  “This is absurd,” he hissed. “Circumstantial at best—”

  Elena cut him off. “The original ledger you tried to burn wasn’t completely destroyed. And the version you planted? The one we just watched you retrieve? It doesn’t match the version we found in the fireplace.”

  Ashcroft motioned to the constables waiting nearby. “Take him.”

  As they moved to cuff him, Tobias said, almost desperately, “You don’t understand—Morcant was going to ruin us. He was reckless. He would’ve sunk the entire firm—”

  “You killed him for convenience,” Elena said coolly. “Not justice.”

  Tobias didn’t answer. The silence said enough.

  Later That Night

  The manor had quieted, but the stillness wasn’t peaceful.

  It was the kind of silence that lingered after something irreversible. The kind that hung in old rooms and under closed doors. The kind that had nothing to prove, only to endure.

  Elena stood alone on the upper balcony, the hem of her coat brushing her boots in the wind. Below, the garden sat half-lit by a thin moon, all roses and thorns. She sipped from the teacup in her hand, though the tea had long gone cold.

  This was the kind of ending she used to read in detective manga—case closed, culprit caught, clever heroine walks away with a smirk and a witty line.

  But now?

  Now she felt something else—something that didn’t fit neatly between the panels.

  Solving a murder was different when you stood in the room where it happened. When the blood was real. When the lies cracked under your fingertips, and someone’s life unraveled like thread.

  There was satisfaction, yes. But it was tangled in a quiet grief.

  She thought about Lord Morcant’s body, the weight of Tobias’s silence, the fear in Will’s eyes. No audience clapped. No narrator wrapped it up with clever narration.

  It was work. And it was weight.

  She exhaled.

  Footsteps behind her, careful but not hesitant. She didn’t turn.

  Adrian joined her at the railing, a fresh cup of tea in hand. He offered it. She accepted it with a quiet “Thanks.”

  They stood like that for a while. No pressure to speak.

  Then Adrian said, “You’re quiet.”

  “I thought this part would feel better,” Elena replied softly.

  He tilted his head, waiting.

  “When I was a kid,” she continued, “I read all the classics. Holmes, Poirot, Kindaichi. I loved the twist endings, the dramatic reveals, the satisfaction of truth coming out like a magician’s final trick.”

  She paused. “But when you’re actually in it… it’s different.”

  “How so?”

  Elena didn’t answer right away. She looked down at her tea, then out toward the dark lawn.

  “There’s no music cue,” she said finally. “No neat epilogue. Just tired people. A mess to clean. And someone who won’t ever get up again.”

  Adrian nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

  “Do you ever wonder if solving a case actually fixes anything?” she asked.

  “I think it gives the illusion of order,” he said after a moment. “People like to believe that truth restores balance.”

  “And you?” Elena turned to him.

  “I think truth is a scalpel,” Adrian said. “It cuts clean. Sometimes it heals. Sometimes it just exposes the wound.”

  She let that sit between them. The wind pulled at her collar. She didn’t adjust it.

  “I used to think being smart was the most important part of being a detective,” she said. “Now I think it might be stamina.”

  Adrian offered the faintest smile. “You carry it well.”

  Elena didn’t return the smile, but she didn’t look away either. “You’re good at knowing what to say.”

  “I’m good at listening,” he replied. “People tend to reveal more in the silences than in the confessions.”

  “Even me?”

  “Especially you.”

  That made her smirk—just a little. She looked away before it turned into something else.

  “Get some rest,” Adrian said. “There will be more cases.”

  Elena watched him go.

  And then she was alone again.

  Later Still

  She couldn’t sleep. Not really.

  So she wandered.

  The study still smelled faintly of ink and lavender oil. The fireplace had been cleared. The desk was clean.

  She didn’t know what she expected when she stepped inside. But it wasn’t what she saw.

  Hovering above the desk, faint and unreal, was a glowing icon—no bigger than a coin. Transparent. Geometric. Like something from a video game HUD.

  [CASE CLEARED]

  +120 XP

  +1 Skill Point: Deduction

  Elena froze.

  Her pulse climbed. Her breath caught.

  She reached out—but before she could touch it, the icon flickered and vanished. No sound. No trace. Just gone.

  She stood still for a full ten seconds, then checked her wrists. Her reflection in the window. The ceiling.

  Nothing.

  And then, as if to mock her certainty, the door creaked open behind her.

  She turned—already knowing who it was.

  Lucien Ward leaned against the frame like he’d been there the whole time. Relaxed. Observing. Always too comfortable with the strange.

  “Well done, Detective,” he said.

  Elena didn’t speak.

  “You know,” Lucien continued, stepping into the room, “most people fail their first case. Too many assumptions. Not enough nerve.”

  She stared at him. “What is this place?”

  Lucien’s smile didn’t waver. “A test. A maze. A performance. A game, if you want to be cynical about it.”

  “And you?” she asked. “What are you?”

  He considered her for a beat. “Someone who’s here to see if you’re ready for what comes next.”

  He turned to leave. But just before disappearing through the door, he glanced back and added:

  “Be careful where you look for answers, Elena. Not all truths come with tidy endings.”

  Then he was gone.

  And this time, she didn’t follow.

  She just stood there, heart still pounding, staring at the spot where the icon had hovered.

  Truth was a scalpel, Adrian had said.

  She wasn’t sure yet what this one had cut open.

  But the wound wasn’t done bleeding.