The call came at 3:17 a.m., rousing Detective Clara Reynolds from a restless sleep. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, vibrating its way toward the edge. She answered on the second ring, her voice groggy but steady.

"Reynolds."

"We've got a situation at the Cypress Hollow Observatory," Officer Nate Cruz said. "You'd better get here quick."

Clara was already swinging her legs out of bed. "What am I walking into?"

Cruz hesitated. It's Dr. Elias March. He's dead. And it's not natural causes.

---

By the time Clara arrived, the observatory was a hive of activity, its white dome glowing under the harsh beams of police floodlights. The fog was thicker than usual, wrapping around the building like a damp shroud. She pulled her coat tighter against the chill as she crossed the threshold.

Inside, the air was colder still, laced with the sterile scent of death. Dr. Elias March lay sprawled near the base of the massive telescope that dominated the room. A dark red stain spread beneath him, soaking into the polished tiles.

"Gunshot wound," Cruz said as she approached. He stood near the body, his notepad open, pen poised. Single entry to the chest. No weapons on the scene.

Clara crouched beside the body, her sharp eyes scanning every detail. Dr. March's face was frozen in a mask of surprise, his glasses askew, one lens cracked. He wore a simple suit, though the shirt beneath was rumpled, as if he'd been in a hurry.

"No sign of a struggle," she murmured, mostly to herself. "Any witnesses?"

None so far. Security cameras were offline—power surge, apparently. The night staff found him about an hour ago when they heard a crash.

She glanced at the telescope. It loomed above them, its massive lens aimed skyward, oblivious to the tragedy below. "And they didn't see anyone coming or going?"

Cruz shook his head. "The fog's so thick you can't see ten feet past the parking lot. Perfect cover if you're looking to slip away unnoticed."

Clara straightened, her eyes narrowing as they swept the room. The observatory was immaculate, every surface gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. But something felt... off.

"Over here, Detective."

Clara turned to see a young officer standing by a desk in the corner. She crossed the room, her boots clicking against the tiles. The desk was cluttered with papers—notes, diagrams, an open laptop. But it was the single sheet of paper at the center that drew her attention.

The message was typed in bold, blocky letters:

The Stars always reveal the truth.

Clara stared at the note, her mind already working. It wasn't handwritten, which meant it was planned, deliberate. Not a spur-of-the-moment act.

"Bag it," she said, stepping back.

The officer nodded and carefully slid the note into an evidence bag.

"What do you make of it?" Cruz asked, appearing at her side.

"Could be a threat, could be a clue," Clara replied. Either way, it's personal. Whoever did this wanted us to find it.

She turned her attention back to the desk. A photograph caught her eye, half-buried beneath a stack of papers. She pulled it free and studied it.

It was a group photo—Dr. March and five others, all smiling, were standing in front of the observatory. A mix of men and women, all wearing lab coats.

"Who are they?" she asked, holding the photo up.

Cruz glanced at it. His research team, most likely. March was working on some big environmental project. Something about the marshlands.

Clara frowned. The Cypress Hollow marshlands were a point of contention in the town—a fragile ecosystem under threat from developers. If March's work had ruffled the wrong feathers...

Nate, get me a list of everyone on his team. I want to know who they are, where they were tonight, and what their connections to March were.

"On it," Cruz said, jotting the request in his notepad.

Clara took one last look around the observatory. The air was heavy with silence now, the hum of the telescope's machinery the only sound. Outside, the fog pressed against the windows, an impenetrable wall of gray.

She felt it then, that familiar prickle at the base of her neck. The sense that she was being watched. She turned sharply, her eyes sweeping the room, but there was nothing.

Just the fog.

And the shadows it carried.

---

As Clara stepped out of the observatory, the cold air bit at her cheeks. Cruz followed close behind, his expression grim.

"What's your gut telling you?" he asked.

Clara paused, looking out at the faint outline of the marshlands in the distance. Somewhere out there, someone knew exactly what had happened to Dr. March.

"This wasn't random," she said finally. "Someone wanted him dead, and they wanted to send a message."

She turned to Cruz, her eyes sharp. "And we're going to find out why."