On the 17th of May, just past midnight, the Whitmore Estate stood bathed in moonlight, a vast expanse of manicured gardens, iron gates, and marble walls. The mansion was a fortress on its own, flanked by two security watchtowers and a small squad of armed guards patrolling the perimeter. Beyond the hedges, the faint hum of motion sensors buzzed, and surveillance drones traced silent arcs across the night sky.
Inside, the air carried the stillness of wealth, sterile, polished, and precise.
Charles Whitmore had just stepped out of the shower, his skin still damp, a towel hanging loosely around his shoulders. He crossed the marble floor of his bathroom and made his way into the adjoining bedroom, still half-lit by the soft gold lamps that lined the walls. But tonight, something was off.
The moment he stepped in, everything went black.
The lights flickered once, then died completely.
He froze, towel in hand. "What the hell…?"
