London, Winter of 1887
The fog curled around the windows, as if the city were trying to hide itself from a new visitor. When the train stopped at St. Pancras Station, Martin stepped off with a confidence reserved only for those who know exactly where they're going.
He didn't have much—just a worn leather suitcase and a sharp mind that helped him pass the entrance exams to one of England's most prestigious universities. The twenty-year-old had made a decision: to leave Manchester behind and begin a new life in the heart of the capital.
When he arrived at his lodging on Love Street, Apartment 245, he dropped his bag beside the bed and stood for a moment, observing the small room. It wasn't special, but it had something that resembled him: calm, simplicity, and enough space to think.
That very day, Martin put on his wool coat and headed to the university, led more by his curiosity than his feet.
In the university courtyard, students were gathered in a circle of spectators. Five students sat at a long wooden table, debating intensely as they stared at a paper containing a complex mathematical riddle. Excitement was written on the faces of those watching—some even whispered that the university's elite had solved a riddle that had stumped even the Chief Inspector at the Home Office.
Martin approached quietly, glanced at the paper, then let out a faint, amused laugh.
Pointing at the board, he said:
— "You've got it completely wrong."
A moment of silence followed, then one of them raised an eyebrow.
— "Who are you?"
— "Martin. I arrived today."
Without waiting for an invitation, he took the pen and began writing the solution in front of everyone. It didn't take more than a minute before he lifted the paper with a faint smile and handed it to the elite. Waiting.
The student sitting in the center—tall, sharp-featured—took the paper without blinking. This was Adrian, the smartest student at the university.
He read the solution silently, then smiled and gestured toward the nearby chess table.
— "Care for a game?"
Martin replied with equal confidence:
— "Always."
The match began amid the students' excitement. The first move was expected, but by the fifth, whispers spread. By the eighth, breaths were held. Adrian, who had never been defeated, began to feel that this young man was no ordinary player.
After fifteen minutes, Adrian extended his hand in surrender.
The next morning, Adrian received a luxurious envelope sealed with gold. He opened it in front of his friends:
> "An invitation from Mr. Arthur, the most renowned architect in London, to attend a grand soirée at his palace.
The event will be held next Saturday evening, attended by the elite of England's artists and thinkers.
Martin raised an eyebrow slightly.
— "An aristocratic party... An intriguing start."
None of them knew that that night… would be the end of peace, and the beginning of a dangerous game that would engulf London in a whirlwind of terror.
The lights sparkled above the Thames, and the London fog crept slowly across the stone pavements. At eight o'clock in the evening, black luxury carriages began arriving at the palace of the famous architect Arthur Luther—one of the icons of British architecture, known for his bold designs that blended tradition and modernity.
Inside, the grand hall glowed with gold and crystal, while a classical ensemble played a Tchaikovsky piece. Everyone was dressed in their finest: velvet gowns, formal suits, and smiles hiding countless secrets.
The elite entered, led by Adrian and Martin. As always, they were confident and alert—not as guests, but as observers dissecting a world under the microscope.
Mr. Luther welcomed them personally, with a forced smile and a gaze tinged with tension.
Adrian teased:
— "I heard a palace of your design doesn't allow for flaws. So tonight will be flawless, yes?"
Luther chuckled lightly and replied:
— "In my world, Adrian, every corner hides a story… and perhaps tonight, it will be a story not soon forgotten."
Hours passed. Champagne glasses circled the room, and conversations about art and awards filled the air. The party seemed like a perfect painting—until a spotlight fell suddenly, and a maid's scream cut through the music.
Guests gathered at the foot of the marble staircase, where the trembling maid pointed upstairs.
— "Mr. Luther… he's in his office… the door is locked from the inside!"
Security rushed up, followed by detectives who arrived quickly after a guest's call.
They broke down the door—and were met with a nightmare.
Mr. Luther sat in his chair, head tilted, face pale and bloodless. No wounds. No sign of violence.
On the desk lay a large domino tile, carefully placed, bearing the number 6.
On the floor, drawn in the victim's blood, was a strange shape resembling an architectural arch—his signature design found in all his work.
What shocked the investigators most: the office was locked from the inside, and the key was in Luther's own pocket.
Detective Michael arrived minutes later. A tall man with a grey hat, his eyes scanned faces as though reading secret files.
He entered the grand hall where the guests stood nervously. Approaching Adrian and Martin, he paused for a moment before saying:
— "A locked room mystery… no weapon… no signs of entry or exit… and of everyone here, you two are the only ones who look… calm."
Adrian smiled faintly:
— "Sometimes, calm is just the sign that you're waiting for the right question."
Michael responded, eyeing him closely:
— "Alright then… here's a question.
If you wanted to kill an architect during a party full of witnesses, without being seen or heard… what would you do?"
Silence fell.
Martin lifted his head and said quietly:
— "I would use what everyone knows about him… and make him fail at the thing he trusted most: his own design."
Michael looked at him with subtle admiration. Then he pulled out a notepad.
— "Your names?"
— "Adrian Lux."
— "Martin Graves."
He stared at them for a long moment, then jotted down a quick note and murmured:
— "Looks like I've found the ones I can count on."
Before the investigation wrapped up, Martin noticed something small behind the desk—a black dot on the floor. He picked it up: another domino piece, not placed… but dropped, as if some
one had forgotten it.
He lifted it slowly and whispered to Adrian:
— "The real game has just begun…"