The chill of a Sunday morning still clung to the air when the scream tore through the silence, raw and terrifying. I was out on my usual constitutional, watching the familiar rhythm of the street: the dog walker, the jogging woman with her music. Then, a sickening thud. Robbie Chase, impaled on the wrought-iron fence below his fourth-floor window, blood spilling onto the pavement.

My routine, a lonely solace since my wife’s tragic accident, was shattered. The police arrived, efficient but dismissive, already framing it as a suicide. But I, Quintus Noone, knew better. The inconsistencies, the faint doubts in their questions – they all pointed to something far more sinister.

Then, a familiar face: Blanche Bradbury, the pathologist, her presence a stark reminder of the dark truths we both knew lay beneath the surface. As the scene unfolded, a chilling realization settled in: this wasn’t just a death. This was a message. And I, for better or worse, was now part of it.