Murder at the Mayors Mansion
The East Wing smells of old books, cold stone, and something sharper.
Blood.
Thomas Hale lies sprawled over the desk in Victor’s private study. His skull is caved in at the back, glasses shattered beside him. A fire crackles low in the hearth. Rain taps faintly through a window left slightly open.
No weapon in sight.
The scene feels staged — not sloppy, not frantic. Controlled.
You take in the details slowly, carefully. This is where the story begins, whether the killer wants it to or not.
Blood.
Thomas Hale lies sprawled over the desk in Victor’s private study. His skull is caved in at the back, glasses shattered beside him. A fire crackles low in the hearth. Rain taps faintly through a window left slightly open.
No weapon in sight.
The scene feels staged — not sloppy, not frantic. Controlled.
You take in the details slowly, carefully. This is where the story begins, whether the killer wants it to or not.