I sit in my darkened apartment in Venice, the city of masks, and I have become one myself. No cases. No justice. Just silence and the weight of all the lives I couldn’t save. Then Ariadne arrives, breathless, insisting I attend a séance—'for fun,' she says. I go not for the dead, but to expose the living fraud.

The palazzo looms over the canal, its windows glowing like eyes. Inside, the air is thick with incense and fear. Joyce Reynolds, draped in velvet, begins to speak—in the voice of a dead girl. 'I was murdered,' she says. I rise to denounce her—when she hands me her mask and robe. Moments later, she is dead, impaled on stone.

The storm hits. The bridges flood. We are trapped.

And then I hear it—the humming. A child’s tune, echoing through empty halls. Is it real? Or is my mind, like this city, finally drowning?

The first body is just the beginning. The truth is buried deeper than bones. And I—I who once believed only in order—must now walk through the fog of the impossible.