Chapter 1 The Body in Room 213

The storm that rolled over Bellgrove that night wasn't just weather - it was an omen.

Thunder cracked the silence at 2:13 AM, the precise moment the fire alarm blared through Elmswood Hotel's ancient corridors. The building, a towering relic of the 1920s, groaned as if it, too, sensed something was terribly wrong.

Caleb, the front desk clerk, jolted from his seat. He fumbled with the emergency keys, his fingers slick with sweat. The alarm traced back to Room 213, but the system showed no smoke, no fire - only noise. The old lights flickered as he climbed the creaky staircase, heart hammering harder with each step.

When he reached the room and unlocked the door, what he saw would haunt him forever.

A woman sat upright in a Victorian-style armchair, her head tilted slightly, her eyes open - frozen in a gaze of eternal shock. Blood pooled at her feet, creeping into the worn carpet like ivy. A single rose lay beside her left shoe - its petals stained deep red and curling at the edges as if scorched.

No ID. No suitcase. No phone.

Detective Mara Velasquez arrived within the hour, trench coat soaked from the rain. The body hadn't been moved. Her years of experience told her this was no random act of violence.

"This wasn't messy. It was poetic," she whispered, crouching by the rose. "Too intentional."

The window was locked from the inside. No forced entry. Surveillance? Gone. The hallway camera outside Room 213 had gone dark at exactly 1:55 AM and came back online at 2:20.

On the desk nearby, Mara found a half-filled notepad. Scribbled across three pages were the same chilling words:

"Meet me before midnight. Bring the photo."

The last page had been torn out.

"This isn't a murder," she said, standing slowly. "This is a performance."