For a while, all you can hear is water. The hum of the pool filter. The soft lap of ripples against tile. You stare through the glass, unable to look away from the blue light bleeding into the marble floor.

Someone is speaking nearby, but the words come muffled, as if underwater.

“—found him just after midnight,” a voice says. “No pulse.”

Vincent Vale.

The name still doesn’t make sense. You blink, but the reflection in the window doesn’t change: the house, the city glittering below, the faint shimmer of police lights staining the edges of it all. You’ve been here countless times—parties, premieres, long nights full of laughter and champagne—but now every corner feels hollow.

A hand touches your shoulder—light, trembling. “Hey.” It’s Harper, your assistant. She’s young, careful, and trying too hard not to fall apart. “You should sit down. You’re shaking.”

You hadn’t realized. The air feels cold, but there’s sweat at the back of your neck. You let her guide you to the couch. Across the room, the sliding doors are open to the pool, where the water still moves in quiet, indifferent waves. Two officers hover by the edge, their flashlights cutting through the dark.

From the kitchen, Lyle, your manager, is raising his voice—sharp, desperate, trying to control something that can’t be controlled. “This is insane,” he says. “Do you know how this looks? There are cameras outside already. If someone leaks—”

“Lyle.” You try to interrupt, but your voice falters halfway through his name. He doesn’t hear you—or maybe he does, and just can’t stop himself.

You look down at your hands. They’re trembling. You’d seen Francis earlier that evening, laughing in that tired way he always did when he wanted to seem fine. You’d clinked glasses, promised to call next week. You can’t remember if you said goodbye.

A new voice cuts through the static—smooth, deliberate, out of place in this house of glass and noise.

“If I may ask everyone to remain calm,” says a man in a pale linen suit, stepping past the threshold. “And to please refrain from disturbing the scene further. There are truths that don’t much care for panic.”

Benoit Blanc. The name surfaces in your memory before your eyes even meet his. You’ve seen the interviews, read the profiles. The gentleman detective with the slow voice and sharp mind.

He takes off his hat, gaze sweeping the room. His eyes settle on the pool, then on you.

“You were close to Mr. Vale, were you not?”

The words hang in the air like a charge. You open your mouth to answer, but the sound that comes out isn’t a sentence—it’s something raw, unfinished.

Blanc studies you quietly, his expression unreadable.

“Then I would ask you to stay, if you would,” he says softly. “Until I’ve had the opportunity to ask a few questions. I find first impressions to be mighty revealing.”

Lyle finally stops talking. Harper lowers herself into a chair across from you, twisting her bracelet around her wrist.

Outside, the rain starts—thin, needling, tracing down the glass walls that overlook Los Angeles. From somewhere below, faint flashes of cameras bloom through the mist.

You take a breath. The air smells like chlorine and wet stone.

Somewhere in this house, Vincent Vale’s final performance is still being written—and you’re already part of it.