Static

Rain lashes against the high transom window, steady and unrelenting.

Between the writing desk and the heavy velvet drapes lies an overturned chair, its brass caster gouging a pale, violent crescent into the dark hardwood. On the desk itself, a ledger lies open. The ink across the final entry has not yet dried, smeared outward in a desperate arc where a hand dragged across the paper before collapsing toward the floor.

There is no forced entry. The iron latch on the balcony door remains sealed against the autumn frost. On the side table, a pair of porcelain cups sits undisturbed—one empty, one half-full, the tea long gone cold beneath a thin film of oil.

Someone knew the combination to the study door. Someone knew precisely which floorboard would groan underfoot and which angle of the room remained hidden from the streetlamps below.

The draft pulls the door shut with a faint, decisive click. The hallway beyond falls silent.

Turn the page. The clock has already started.