London, 1897. The fog curled like smoke as stepped onto Harrowick Lane. Inside Blackthorne Hall, the lord of the house lay dead -his throat neatly cut, a black feather placed with care upon his chest. No witnesses. No signs of struggle. It could've been someone inside.. or someone clever enough to vanish into the night. In a city like this, motives hide in parlors--and alleys. One thing was certain: the game had begun.
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