Chapter Three: What’s Your Take, Watson?

The rain had tapered off, but the fog remained—a thick, sticky blanket that wrapped London in a haze of smoke and silence. The cobblestone roads glistened like the skin of some dormant beast, damp and indifferent.

Rudolph Hill arrived in a sleek, black car that crunched quietly over gravel. When he stepped out, his coat barely moved, but his eyes scanned the modest brick building in front of him—the detective's flat.

Lorian didn't say much as they began the drive. He sat silently in the backseat, one hand tapping lightly against the armrest, the other tucked into his pocket where the blood-fed ants slept.

"Mr. Winston will be expecting your insight," Rudolph said, keeping his tone courteous. "Though of course, discretion is valued above all else."

"I've noticed," Lorian muttered, eyes fixed on the road unraveling before them like a strip of film from someone else's story.

The estate lay on the outskirts of the city, hidden among dying trees and overgrown hedges. "Tepes Manor," it was called—because of course it was. Lorian snorted at the irony.

They passed under a wrought iron archway, then slowed to a halt in front of a three-story Victorian-style mansion, all shadow and flourish. The stone lion at the gates looked like it hadn't slept in a hundred years.

"You keep a lovely home," Lorian quipped dryly as he stepped out of the car.

"It's not mine," Rudolph replied smoothly. "I'm merely a servant."

The front doors creaked open to reveal polished floors, flickering lamps, and that heavy stillness money always buys. It was the kind of place that didn't echo—it swallowed sound whole.

"This way, please."

They moved through narrow halls until they reached the staff quarters. At the end of a corridor, behind yellow-black police tape, sat Room 104.

Two officers waited outside. One was tall, with sandy hair and a relaxed posture. The other was a woman with sharp eyes and a ponytail so tight it looked like it hurt.

"Officers Vincent and Vinnie," Rudolph introduced. "This is Detective Lorian."

"Nice to meet you," said Vinnie, stepping forward with her hand extended. "We've just finished our preliminary interviews with the staff."

Lorian shook her hand briefly and then turned his attention to the sealed door.

"May I?" he asked.

Vinnie nodded. "We were about to go in ourselves."

The door creaked open. The air inside was sharp with the scent of old blood and mildew.

The corpse lay crumpled on the floor, pale and stiff, one hand still clinging to a small fruit knife. Blood had dried into a dark halo beneath his neck. The room itself was pristine, almost unnaturally so. A photo sat on the bedside table—Jack Arnold, dressed immaculately, unsmiling.

Lorian crouched beside the body. His gloved fingers hovered just above the skin. The ants stirred in his pocket. But something else stirred too.

A chill ran down his spine as a whisper touched the edge of his mind—not sound, but presence.

"Pain...""Head... hurts...""So cold..."

Lorian snapped his hand back, startled. The voice faded instantly.

"You okay?" Vinnie asked, taking a step forward.

"Fine," he muttered. "Just... surprised by the smell."

He reached out again—slowly, deliberately. The whisper returned. Faint. Fragmented. But there.

The body was dead. But not silent.

This one isn't empty, Lorian thought.

He stood, brushing his coat clean, masking the discomfort behind a lazy shrug. "Judging by the wound's angle and placement," he said, "I doubt it was self-inflicted."

"You sure?" Vincent asked. "Looks like a pretty typical suicide to me."

"If he really did it himself, he was either left-handed with a broken shoulder, or incredibly flexible." Lorian raised a brow. "Want to test the theory?"

Vincent took a step back. "Nope. You go ahead."

"And there's something else," Lorian added, retrieving the suicide note. He examined the handwriting. "It's close—but not perfect. See here—the loop on the Y? Doesn't match his signature from the employment records."

"Forged?" Vinnie asked.

Lorian nodded. "Almost certainly."

The trio exited the room. In the hallway, several staff members had been gathered. Nervous glances bounced between them like static electricity.

Lorian scanned their faces, eyes lingering for just a moment on each. Then he stepped forward and pointed to one man sitting in the back, hunched and pale.

"You," he said. "You're the killer."

Gasps rippled through the room.

"Wh-what?" the man stammered.

"You were jealous," Lorian said calmly. "Jack was promoted. You weren't. And when the layoffs came, he kept his salary. You didn't. You forged the note. Took a knife from the kitchen. Waited until he was alone."

"That's... that's insane!"

"Is it?" Lorian said, his voice sharp as a scalpel. "You smell like blood. You're sweating. Your shoes—one is damp. I'd wager from the mop bucket you spilled when you cleaned up the scene."

The man broke. Tears welled in his eyes.

"I didn't mean to—" he croaked. "I just—he had everything and I—"

Vincent stepped in, cuffing him without a word.

Vinnie turned to Lorian. "How did you—?"

He smiled slightly. "Ever heard of deductive reasoning?"