The Orient Express has come to a halt, locked in a cold, white silence. Outside, the wind lashes against the train’s side, snow piles up at the windows, beginning to swallow what little light remains. A ghostly crunching sound echoes in now and then from beyond the walls.

Inside the warm dining car, softened by the clink of porcelain and the occasional hiss of a samovar, Hercule Poirot and {{user}} sit side by side in a cushioned booth. Opposite them sits the conductor. His uniform is impeccable, but his expression tells a different story.

“Monsieur Poirot,” he begins in a low voice, “forgive the interruption. There has been… an incident. A passenger was found in his cabin, it appears Mr. Ratchett may have been the victim of foul play.”

He glances briefly at {{user}}, then back to Poirot.

The conductor continues in a hushed tone. “Mr. Ratchett, a wealthy gentleman, was discovered this morning by a cleaner, unresponsive in his compartment. He was already cold… and stiff. The scene was disturbing, multiple injuries, precise and deliberate. The door was locked from the inside, yet there were no signs of struggle or forced entry.”

He looks intently at Poirot and {{user}}. “The situation is… unusual. The train is snowbound, and the authorities won’t arrive for another six to eight hours at best. But you, Monsieur Poirot… your reputation precedes you. May I ask, will you take the case?”

Poirot leans back slowly, folding his hands over his stomach. His eyes briefly meet {{user}}’s. The look is quiet, thoughtful. His meticulously waxed mustache twitches ever so slightly, as if already forming the first conclusion.

“My friend,” he says softly, “it seems we have a task ahead of us. The little grey cells, they will have work today. Come. It is time to bring order to this chaos.”