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Showing posts from October, 2025

"Blood In The Ink"

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  BLOOD IN THE INK THE MANSION AT THE EDGE OF THE CITY The mansion stood where the city quietly surrendered to darkness. A colossal structure of glass and stone, perched at the very edge of civilization, surrounded by trimmed hedges, towering pines, and a fog that seemed less like weather and more like intention. Soft lights spilled from tall windows, dissolving into the mist like secrets trying to escape. Zane Faulkner adjusted the collar of his black overcoat as he stepped out of the car. “One day,” Eli muttered beside him, staring at the glowing mansion with visible discomfort, “you’re going to tell me why trouble always wears expensive clothes.” Zane smiled faintly. “Because danger, my dear Eli, has excellent taste.” Fog curled around their shoes as music drifted from inside—laughter, clinking glasses, the hum of power gathered under one roof. This was no ordinary celebration. It was the birthday of Victoria Hale—the only daughter of Senator Richard Hale, one of the most influe...
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"The Quiet Floor"

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  THE DOOR THAT OPENED ITSELF The knock was soft at first — hesitant, uncertain — the way a cleaner would knock when she knew the tenant never liked interruptions. But when no one answered, she tried again. Still silence. The hallway of Wellington Heights was unusually quiet that morning; not even the hum of the elevator disturbed the air. “Mr. Dorian?” she called out gently. No sound. Her fingers trembled as she pressed the handle. The door wasn’t locked. It moved slightly with a dull creak — just enough to reveal the dim interior of Apartment 6B. Inside, the air felt thick, unmoving, almost suffocating. She stepped in, clutching the cleaning cloth like a weapon. The curtains were drawn, the faint light cutting through the dust like blades. Then she saw it. A man, slumped sideways on the couch. His head bent at an impossible angle, eyes open but hollow. A coffee mug lay shattered on the carpet, its dark contents spread like dried blood. For a second, her mind refused to pr...
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Location: United States
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"The Last Drive"

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  THE BODY IN THE FOREST The night was silent except for the slow whisper of wind through the pine trees. A single car stood in the middle of the narrow forest road, its headlights still on — slicing through the fog that floated like pale ghosts above the asphalt. Inside, behind the steering wheel, a man sat motionless. His coat collar was turned up, his expression frozen in an eerie calm. A few feet away, two police officers stood under the faint glow of their flashlights, steam rising from their breath in the icy air. “Car locked from inside,” one muttered, jotting notes in his pad. “Engine’s off, lights still running. No footprints except his own.” The other officer leaned closer to the window, trying to make out the pale features of the dead man. “Name’s Harold Crayden , Member of Parliament. Looks like a heart attack… or something that wants us to think so.” The senior inspector, a tall man with a wool cap pulled down to his eyebrows, exhaled deeply. “And the driver?” “G...
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Location: United States
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"The Silent Clock"

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  THE NEWS IN THE CAFÉ Rain was drumming softly against the glass walls of the café on Harrow Street. It was one of those London evenings where the world seemed half-asleep — the air smelled of wet stone and coffee, and the lamps outside threw trembling reflections on puddles. Zane Faulkner sat by the window, a faint smile curling his lips as he stirred his coffee with deliberate slowness. Across from him sat Eli — restless, curious, and half-buried in a newspaper. “Zane,” Eli said, tapping the front page with a finger, “you’re not gonna believe this one.” Zane didn’t even look up. “Statistically, Eli, I rarely do.” Eli frowned. “No, seriously — listen to this! ‘Renowned clockmaker Arthur Morvan found dead inside his locked shop. Main clock stopped at exactly 6:47 PM. Authorities baffled.’ Locked room, Zane! That’s your kind of dessert, isn’t it?” Zane finally looked up, his eyes glinting like polished glass. “Arthur Morvan…” he murmured. “The man who claimed he could make a ...
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Location: United States
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"Apartment No. 47"

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  THE CRIME SCENE The night was a curtain of fog. London’s winter had sunk its fangs deep into the streets, swallowing sound and color alike. Only the muted pulse of blue police lights flickered through the mist outside Ravenhurst Tower — a twelve-story building that seemed to float in the haze like a ghost of concrete and glass. Inside Apartment No. 47, a group of officers stood clustered around the body of Arthur Leighton . He lay sprawled near the door, eyes open, his face strangely peaceful — too peaceful. The forensic team murmured in low tones, jotting notes, dusting fingerprints. The air smelled faintly of ozone and cold coffee. Detective Harris rubbed his temples. “Locked from inside. No forced entry. The windows sealed. He couldn’t have walked out after dying.” His partner frowned. “Yet CCTV shows him leaving the apartment. Ten minutes before death.” Harris snorted. “Then either we’re chasing a ghost… or someone wants us to think we are.” A steady dripping from the...
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Location: United States
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"The Egyptian House"

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  THE MURDER AT THE MANSION The Egyptian House stood like a misplaced monument in the heart of Kensington — golden pillars, carved hieroglyphs, black marble floors that shimmered like water under the dim glow of antique lamps. Even in the cold London drizzle, the mansion breathed warmth — or perhaps something older, heavier. Inside, chaos hummed. Police officers moved about the grand hall, their boots echoing on polished tiles. Cameras flashed. Forensic markers dotted the floor like a trail of breadcrumbs. And at the center, in the lavish library, lay the body of Nabil Khafra — Egyptian businessman, art collector, and architect of this very house. His face was tilted toward the ceiling, eyes wide open in frozen terror. No wounds. No signs of struggle. Just a thin streak of blood on the marble — drawn carefully into the shape of the Eye of Horus . Detective Rowan, tall and impatient, stood with his notepad. “Locked from the inside,” he muttered to the sergeant beside him. “No ...
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Location: United States
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The Wall Of Lies

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  It was raining lightly when the knock came — urgent, uneven, and trembling. Zane Faulkner, in his silk robe and slippers, leaned back on the couch, tossing a peanut into the air and catching it with his mouth. Eli, curled in a blanket, glanced toward the door. "Don’t open it," he mumbled. "Looks like another husband who's lost his wife at the mall." Zane's eyes sparkled. "Let’s see if the mall sells guilt this season." The door creaked open. A man stood in the hallway, soaked in sweat despite the rain, collar pressed neatly, shirt spotless. His face was pale and his lips quivered. “My wife… she’s been missing for two days,” he said. “The police think she left me. I know she didn’t.” Zane said nothing. He watched the man’s eyes. They blinked too often. “Come in,” Zane finally said, softly. Eli groaned. “We’re not running a lost-and-found, Zane.” Zane smiled. But in his mind, a seed had already been planted. DAY ONE – THE FRIENDS Her nam...
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"Blind Truth Witness"

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  DEAD SILENCE IN THE GALLERY The private viewing room of the Orion Art Gallery was wrapped in an unnatural quiet. Abstract paintings worth millions stared down from the walls, their sharp colors muted under cold white lights. In the center of the room lay the body of Victor Hale , a well-known art investor, sprawled near a minimalist sculpture. His eyes were open, frozen in a look that was neither fear nor surprise—only disbelief. Police officers moved carefully, gloved hands noting every detail. At the center of it all stood Detective Rowan . Her posture was straight, her expression professional, almost emotionless. She listened as two senior officers spoke at once. “No signs of forced entry,” one said. “Security logs show no intruders,” another added. “And the witness,” a third voice hesitated, “the witness is… blind.” Rowan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Blind doesn’t mean unaware,” she said calmly. “What did he report?” “He claims he heard the killer speak. Described the voice. Ev...
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"Paper Mill Murder"

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THE DISCOVERY IN THE FOG The night was cold enough to freeze breath into tiny crystals, and a thick blanket of fog wrapped around the old Ravenford Paper Mill like a shroud. The building had once produced high-grade parchment for half a century, but now it stood silent—its machinery rusted, its walls stained with age, and its corridors echoing with the chill of abandonment. At 3:14 a.m., the silence broke. A security guard stumbled out into the open yard, shouting for help, his flashlight trembling in his hand. Within minutes, police sirens sliced through the icy air, their blue lights piercing the heavy fog as officers stormed inside. Detective Rowan Pierce knelt beside the body lying near the main processing machine. The victim—Edward Langford, the current owner of the mill—was sprawled on the cold metal floor, his shirt stained with a precise stab wound just below the sternum. Blood had dried around him in dark streaks, forming an odd pattern that looked disturbingly intention...
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