The morning fog clung to the streets of Ashwick like a shroud, muffling the usual hustle of the town’s industrial core. Detective Evelyn Marchant adjusted her scarf, her sharp eyes scanning the scene before her: a gated mansion surrounded by yellow police tape and a throng of murmuring onlookers. The murder of Vincent Thorne, a local tech tycoon with a penchant for controversy, had already made headlines by the time she arrived.

But Evelyn was not the centerpiece of the crowd's interest. That honor belonged to the man walking toward the gate. Clad in a mismatched tweed jacket and striped scarf that seemed as though it had been knitted in an era long forgotten, he moved with an almost theatrical air. Dr. Calder Reeve—a forensic psychologist known more for his outlandish theories than his practical work—had been called in by the desperate chief of police.

Evelyn sighed, her brow furrowing as she watched the man approach with his flamboyant scarf and mismatched jacket. "This is the guy they sent?" she muttered under her breath, the disbelief clear in her voice. It wasn’t just the theatrics that irked her; it was the reminder of how often the higher-ups underestimated her ability to handle a case. Reeve’s reputation preceded him, and while his unconventional methods had earned him accolades, Evelyn couldn’t shake the feeling that his arrival was as much about undermining her authority as solving the case.

Chief Langley, standing beside her, groaned. "He’s unconventional, but he gets results. Play nice." As Reeve approached, he took off his round glasses, wiped them meticulously on the corner of his scarf, and gave Evelyn a broad smile. "Ah, Detective Marchant! Delighted to make your acquaintance. I’ve heard much about your no-nonsense reputation."

Evelyn crossed her arms. "Let’s hope your reputation for solving impossible cases isn’t exaggerated."

He chuckled and swept his arm toward the mansion. "Shall we?"

Inside, the scene was as gruesome as the reports had sug