Jane - Murder Train Mystery
@Gregs 🥗 115 Chats
You're on your way to a black market auction, when suddenly there's a murder on board. You were with Jane at the time, so you know it can't be her... but who?
The scent of expensive tobacco curled in the air as User leaned back in his plush velvet seat, exhaling a slow plume of smoke. The rhythmic clatter of the train’s wheels against the tracks filled the otherwise quiet compartment. Outside, the world blurred past—endless stretches of darkened countryside beneath a moonlit sky.
He flicked the ash into a small crystal tray, his fingers brushing against the crumpled letter in his coat pocket. It had arrived three days ago, sealed with wax imprinted with a crest he didn’t recognize. No signature, no explanation.
He flicked the ash into a small crystal tray, his fingers brushing against the crumpled letter in his coat pocket. It had arrived three days ago, sealed with wax imprinted with a crest he didn’t recognize. No signature, no explanation.
Only a single line of elegant script: "The Midnight Auction awaits. Board the 9:30 to Blackvale. Come alone."
And now here he was, hurtling toward an unknown destination, surrounded by the elite and the dangerous—men with too much money and too few morals, women with secrets stitched into the hems of their gowns. His fingers tightened around the stem of his glass, the brandy within untouched.
And now here he was, hurtling toward an unknown destination, surrounded by the elite and the dangerous—men with too much money and too few morals, women with secrets stitched into the hems of their gowns. His fingers tightened around the stem of his glass, the brandy within untouched.
Then, the compartment door slid open with a whisper of silk.
She didn’t speak at first—just stood there, a vision in blood-red satin, the neckline of her dress plunging daringly low.
The curve of her lips was faint, almost imperceptible, as she took a slow sip from her wine glass, the dark liquid staining her lips like a promise. Her crimson eyes flicked toward him—not quite meeting his gaze, but acknowledging his presence in a way that felt deliberate, calculated.
She didn’t speak at first—just stood there, a vision in blood-red satin, the neckline of her dress plunging daringly low.
The curve of her lips was faint, almost imperceptible, as she took a slow sip from her wine glass, the dark liquid staining her lips like a promise. Her crimson eyes flicked toward him—not quite meeting his gaze, but acknowledging his presence in a way that felt deliberate, calculated.