the death of Dr. Grantham

The clock ticked softly in the dimly lit study, its hands frozen at five minutes past midnight. The room smelled of aged paper and faint lavender, a strange contrast to the chaos that had unfolded just hours before. A man's body lay slumped over the desk, blood pooling beneath his head. His hands, once steady and deliberate, now hung lifeless, their fingers still gripping a faded journal.

The room was silent, save for the faint whisper of rain against the windows. But something lingered in the air—a sense of unfinished business, of words unspoken.

Twelve Hours Earlier

Dr. Louis Grantham was a historian by trade, but his passions leaned toward the arcane. His lectures at the university often veered into the realm of the unexplained—ancient symbols found etched in ruins where no civilization should have existed, unexplained disappearances that seemed to follow patterns only he could see.

But it wasn't his lectures that brought him to Luminex's attention. It was his obsession with the Lane family.

In a small, crowded library far from the corporate towers, Dr. Grantham pored over yellowed pages and brittle photographs, his mind ablaze with connections. The Lane family's involvement with the so-called "Veil of Shadows," their ties to forgotten rituals and ancient artifacts—he was close to unraveling a mystery that had eluded even the most diligent researchers.

The name Project Obsidian appeared repeatedly in his findings, though its meaning remained frustratingly elusive. But Grantham wasn't deterred. He believed, with every fiber of his being, that the Lanes were hiding something world-altering.

And now, he had proof.

That evening, as the rain began to fall, Grantham sat in his modest study, his journal open before him. His hand trembled slightly as he traced the delicate sketches he had made—diagrams of symbols, fragments of texts that hinted at something much larger.

He reached for his phone, his fingers dialing a number he hadn't called in years. When the line connected, his voice was hushed but urgent.

"I've found it," he whispered. "I've found the connection."

The voice on the other end was cautious. "Louis, are you sure? This isn't the kind of thing you—"

"I don't have time to explain," Grantham interrupted. "I need to meet. Tonight."

There was a pause, then a reluctant agreement.

Hours later, the door to Grantham's study creaked open. A figure stepped inside, their face obscured by the shadows that danced across the walls.

"Dr. Grantham?" the figure called, their tone neutral but edged with something unplaceable.

Grantham turned, his heart pounding. He recognized the voice—one of his old colleagues, someone he had once trusted. But there was something wrong, something off about the way they stood, the way their gaze flickered too quickly around the room.

"You came alone?" Grantham asked, his voice betraying his nerves.

The figure didn't answer immediately. Instead, they stepped closer, their silhouette sharp against the dim light.

"You've been asking the wrong questions," the figure said finally.

Grantham's breath caught. "What do you mean?"

Before he could react, the figure moved. A sharp glint of metal caught the light, and the historian's world went black.

The Next Day

Ethan stood in the doorway of the study, his expression grim as he surveyed the scene. The body of Dr. Grantham had been discovered by a neighbor, who had called the authorities after hearing a muffled commotion during the storm.

But Ethan wasn't here as part of any official investigation. He had heard whispers—Grantham's name surfacing in conversations he wasn't supposed to hear, his research aligning too closely with the questions Ethan himself had begun asking.

The journal still lay open on the desk, its pages stained with blood. Ethan approached carefully, his gloved hand flipping through the pages. Symbols and notes filled the margins, accompanied by dates and locations. At the bottom of one page, scrawled hastily in dark ink, were the words:

"Project Obsidian—Lane family: the seal is weakening."

Ethan's jaw tightened. Whoever had silenced Grantham had done so because he was close to something dangerous—something they didn't want exposed.

The faint sound of footsteps outside the room pulled Ethan from his thoughts. He turned sharply, his senses on high alert. The hallway beyond was empty, but the tension in the air was unmistakable.

Whoever had been watching Grantham wasn't far.

Victoria's Office

Victoria's fingers tapped rhythmically against her desk as she read the report Anna had handed her. The death of Dr. Grantham wasn't an accident—she knew that much without needing confirmation. But the timing was troubling.

"He was getting close," Anna said, her tone measured. "Closer than anyone else has in years."

Victoria exhaled sharply, her gaze flicking to the shard locked in its case. "And now he's a cautionary tale," she said coldly. "Make sure his research disappears—completely."

Anna hesitated. "And Ethan?"

Victoria's lips curled into a faint smile. "Let him dig. The more he uncovers, the closer he comes to understanding the stakes."

Her gaze darkened, her voice soft but resolute. "And when the time comes, we'll see if he's ready to pay the price."