The night draped itself over the city like a mourner's veil, thick and heavy, its folds clinging to the streets, curling in the hollow corners where the light dared not reach. The rain, unrelenting, fell in a muted rhythm—a soft dirge for the living souls that moved beneath it, oblivious to the darker forces swirling in the heart of the night. And there I stood, on the threshold of the Thornwell Estate, an invitation clutched in one hand, while the other lingered near the pistol tucked beneath my coat—a poor comfort for the creeping dread that slithered through my veins.

The manor loomed before me, its towering windows flickering with the glow of laughter, music, and something far more sinister. It rose from the earth like a mausoleum, ancient and hollow, a place where secrets were buried alongside their victims, their whispers silenced by wealth and power. Yet tonight, those secrets stirred, restless beneath their tombs, ready to breathe again.

The invitation had come as though from a dream—no return address, no name, only the curling wax seal of an unfamiliar insignia: a single crimson 'M,' pressed into the black envelope like the bloodied hand of fate. The Scarlet Council. The name tasted like poison on the tongue, yet it had driven me here, drawn by an invisible tether into the mouth of something monstrous and unknown.

Inside, the air was thick with smoke and perfumes, the scent of velvet and sin woven together in a tapestry of indulgence. The guests, masked in silks and lace, moved like phantoms—spirits with eyes that glinted in the candlelight, each carrying their own hidden weight. Masks hid their faces, but no veil could hide the corruption that pulsed beneath their laughter, the shadowed intent in their every movement. They danced and drank, blissfully unaware, or perhaps willfully ignorant, of the eyes that watched from the darkness. Eyes like mine.

But it was then, amidst the sea of muted colors and swirling smoke, that she appeared.

Like an apparition summoned from the deepest recesses of some fevered dream, she emerged from the shadows, her silhouette framed in the amber glow of the chandelier, a vision of exquisite decay. Her gown flowed like dark water, black as the void between stars, catching the faintest glimmer of silver in its folds. Her face—half-hidden behind a lace mask—was pale, the curve of her lips painted in a shade of red too rich to be called anything but blood. And though her eyes were veiled, I felt the weight of them upon me, sharp as a blade, as though she could peel back the skin of the world itself and see into the very marrow of my soul.

She did not belong to this place. Or perhaps, she belonged more than any of them. A wolf among lambs, wrapped in the same silks but radiating a darkness that the others could only mimic. I felt the room shrink as she moved, the noise of the crowd becoming a dull throb beneath the sound of my own heartbeat. And then, as though sensing my gaze, she turned—slowly, deliberately—and our eyes met across the room.

The earth trembled beneath her smile.

In that moment, it was clear. I was no longer a hunter in search of the truth. I was prey, caught in the web of a woman far more dangerous than any enemy I had ever faced. Her smile was an invitation. A trap. An inevitability.

The Scarlet Council, the web of power that clung to every corner of this city, the names and faces I sought to expose—all of it paled in comparison to the pull of that woman’s eyes. She was the dark beating heart at the center of it all, the black star pulling me into its orbit. And in that gaze, I saw the promise of death, destruction, and desire—a holy trinity wrapped in a single breath.

The air between us hung heavy, pregnant with unspoken promises and dangers I couldn’t yet name.

And so, with one last glance at the masked souls around me, I stepped forward, towards the woman whose eyes already whispered of my inevitable ruin.