A dense London fog veiled the city, softening the flickering glow of gas lamps in the late hours of the night.
At 221 Blackwell Street, a peculiar crimson envelope was delivered to the famed detective Edward Black.
Sealing the letter was a wax emblem—one that his assistant, Harold Gray, recognized instantly.
“Sir… this is the mark of the Black Wing Society, isn’t it?”
Edward carefully unsealed the letter, revealing a cryptic passage written like a poem:
“When darkness shrouds the mist, the bell shall toll and blood shall spill.
To those who follow the tower’s call, the past shall claim them all.”
And beneath it, a simple invitation:
“2 AM. Westminster Bell Tower.”
Harold swallowed hard.
“Is this a murder notice?”
Edward’s expression was unreadable as he murmured,
“They enjoy their games. They want us to follow. But we won’t be mere players in their theater—we’ll be the ones turning the script.”
Without hesitation, he reached for his coat.
“We move.”
The Midnight Chase
At 2 AM, the great clock of Westminster Tower loomed above them, its gears quietly ticking in the night.
A heavy silence blanketed the area—only the damp mist coiled in the air.
“Sir… something’s here.”
Then—
A flash of red near the bell chamber.
A shadow darted across the tower, quick as a phantom.
Edward sprinted forward.
“Stop!”
But before he could close the distance, thick smoke erupted—blinding, choking.
Through the suffocating mist, Edward spoke evenly.
“Harold, their goal isn’t escape. They’re redirecting us.”
When the smoke cleared, a second crimson envelope lay on the ground.
It contained only a single line:
“The next move is at the canal.”
“They’re already ahead of us. We must move.”
The Trap on the Thames
By the fog-draped canal, a solitary boat bobbed along the dark water.
Standing on the dock, a figure watched them before bolting.
“We won’t let them slip away this time!”
Edward and Harold rushed onto the boat, only to find—
A man. Bound. Gagged. Terrified.
Harold quickly untied him, and the man gasped.
“They— they’re coming! Any moment now—”
But Edward had already pieced it together.
His eyes scanned the shadows, then narrowed.
“No. It’s not them who are coming.”
A piercing police whistle split the air.
From the banks, uniformed officers swarmed in.
Within seconds, they were surrounded.
“Sir…” Harold’s voice was tight. “This was their real plan all along.”
Edward smirked, opening the third crimson envelope that had been planted on the boat.
The message was simple:
“You took the bait. But the game isn’t over yet.”
The Next Move
After a frustrating night detained at the police station, Edward and Harold were eventually released.
The chief inspector was less than amused.
“Next time, Black, try not to let them use you as a pawn. We’re busy enough without your theatrics.”
Stepping into the early dawn fog, Harold let out a deep sigh.
“Sir, where do we go from here?”
Edward’s hand slipped into his coat pocket.
His fingers brushed against something new.
A fresh crimson envelope—placed there while they were detained.
Unfolding it, he read its contents and murmured,
“To the heart of the Black Wing Society itself.”
