Ryan sat at his desk, surrounded by a jumble of papers and notes. He had been poring over the clues for days, trying to piece together the puzzle of the mysterious murder that has been keeping them on their toes.
The alphabetical pattern, the use of poisons, the victims' staffs turned against them, the planting of spies in the victims' homes – each clue pointed to a different direction. The murderer was clearly wealthy, likely a noble, with a vendetta against the aristocracy. And they were killing the suspects one by one, leaving no trace behind.
Ryan rubbed his temples, his eyes tired and strained. He tried to link the clues together, but nothing seemed to fit. He was at a loss, his mind a tangled mess of theories and possibilities.
"I hope Thorne has better findings than me," he muttered to himself.
Just then, a knock interrupted his thoughts. "Come in," he called.
