By Avery Corey, TIWP Student

The massive chandelier of the Monte-Carlo Casino dangled in the center of the ballroom, the almond-shaped diamonds dripped with light, spreading throughout every tile of the marble floor like broken glass. Soft music drifted throughout the ballroom, slow enough to make every waltz look rehearsed. Beneath their masks, the richest men and women laughed too loudly, drank too much, and pretended that they were not watching one another. Lila Crew adjusted her own mask, a black laced colombina, simple yet forgettable, and stepped deeper into the crowd. The air reeked of perfume and polished wealth. She kept one hand on her clutch, where a small recording device hummed softly. She had one simple assignment: one night, one gala, and a few incriminating records of Monaco’s elite. But the moment she crossed the casino floor, she felt it, every fake laugh, every rehearsed smile, the gala buzzed with fawning wealth. On the far side of the room, Countess Verena d’Artois laughed beside Adrian Holt, the art collector whose fortune could buy the whole casino. His mask was ivory and smug, a half-face that couldn’t quite hide his cheeky grin. Lila recognized his booming voice immediately, as she’d spent weeks studying each chord in confidential recordings about smuggled paintings and missing money. Holt made his way towards the center of the room, where he pocketed a porcelain spoon and checked his watch with anticipation. It gleamed in polished gold, its face encompassed in little diamonds. Finally, he spun the spoon into his hand and tapped his glass three times, each one echoing between the walls of the ballroom. The guests fell silent and all turned to face the man in the center. 

“Tonight,” Holt said, raising his glass to the crowd, “We celebrate what belongs to me.”

The Countess cocked her head, her eyes gleaming behind the navy blue feathers that protruded from her mask.  “Careful, Adrian. Some things are better left in the dark.”

Lila edged closer towards the crowd, pretending to be interested in the marble statue of the Countess, which stood proudly next to past gala hostesses. One conversation, one slip-up, she told herself, and she’d have her story. The orchestra swelled as waiters walked around, carrying silver trays with champagne flutes. Lila reached for one, and as she did, the room dimmed and the music faded, leaving her heart beating in rhythm with the music that once was. The chandelier flickered in the background as guests settled into a calm as they prepared for the toast, whispering politely yet enviously. 

“To fortune, to art, and to truth.” Holt declared, raising his glass high. Crystal glasses clinked, Lila sipped, and the clock struck 12. The music paused suddenly, and then a sound that didn’t belong—a gasp, then a shatter of glass. Adrian Holt had fallen backward, his ivory mask slipping off as his body hit the marble with a dull, final thud. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Champagne spilled, glittering under the chandelier light. Then the screaming began.

Guests crowded around Holt’s body, horrified yet silent; only the soft hum of whispers and heels against marble remained. Lila looked around, noticing casino security silently closing the doors, the large locks clicking into place—nobody was allowed in or out. Somewhere beyond the gilded walls, faint sirens bled into the night, distant, not yet near enough to help. Captain Hugo Morel, the head of security, piled guests into smaller groups, ushering them into rooms. Lila, still pretending to be a mourning guest, let the mask hide her and slipped quietly into investigative mode. She pushed her way past the crowd until the ivory mask of Holt lay at her feet. She crouched down, the cold marble biting through the fabric of her gown as she placed her clutch between her knees. She gathered the shards of his champagne glass, finding nothing unusual, until she looked closer at the body. A small knife was sheathed against his outer thigh, almost invisible in the folds of his suit. His skin looked gray beneath the ballroom lights, with dark circles carved under his eyes and wrinkles drawn tight across his forehead. Then she saw it, the slow, steady line of blood trailing from his ear.

Lila’s focus quickly drew to the countess, who observed the chaos with unsettling calm, a faint smile played on her lips. Suddenly, their gazes met, and that smirk stretched to a smile, curling at the corners of her feathered mask. Lila’s gaze drifted to the side, catching the gleam of almond-shaped earrings with massive rubies that hung like drops of blood. The countess swiftly turned around, and she was gone. Lila dropped the shards of glass, and they clattered sharply against the marble. With one hand holding up her dress and the other steadying her mask, clutch tucked under her arm, she shoved her way towards the corridor where the countess had disappeared. The corridor was lined with red velvet, chandeliers glittering overhead, and doors stretching further than Lila could see. There in the center stood the countess, almost as if she were waiting for Lila to follow.

Lila stopped, her chest heaving, “You don’t seem as shaken as you should, Countess,”

“Why should I be? Death visits us all, but some of us dress better for the occasion.” The countess’s eyes swept over Lila from head to toe, and that familiar smirk curved back into place. 

Lila ignored the jab, a shudder running down her spine, “You were standing with Holt before the toast. What did he mean when he said ‘what belongs to me’?”

The countess let out a chuckle, tilting her head in amusement, “Adrian loved his possessions. He never realized that he was one of mine.”

Lila swallowed hard, “That’s not the kind of thing an innocent woman says.”

The countess stepped closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. Lila could feel her breath on her cheek. “Oh, detective,” she murmured arrogantly, “ innocence is such a dull mask. Don’t you agree?”

Lila froze, her mind spinning. “How did you—”

Before she could finish, the lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then the chandeliers began to fall, all crashing one after another down the length of the corridor. Glass flew like crystal rain. Lila bent over, shielding her face. Darkness swallowed everything. A door slammed somewhere ahead, and when the lights returned, the Countess was gone. Only one ruby earring lay still in her place. 

She bent down and picked up the ruby earring, still warm in her palm. A faint breath of cold air brushed the back of her neck. Lila stiffened. She wasn’t alone. In a shard of fallen crystal at her feet, she caught it, a reflection that was not her own. Behind her, in the distance, where the corridor gave way to darkness, a figure stood completely still. A mask, pitch-black, featureless, absorbing all the light left in the room. Lila spun around on her heels as the figure stepped into the shadows. Her mind shifted as she followed the figure into the darkness at a pace that soon turned to a fast jog. The figure moved with unsettling calm, slipping around each corner before Lila could reach it. Her heels echoed sharply against the velvet corridors, and her breath became ragged as she twisted into unfamiliar territory. The figure vanished through a heavy service door that swung for only a moment before settling with a metallic sigh. Lila pushed it open, finding only a narrow stairwell that spiraled downward into darkness. No footsteps. No shadow. Just the faint scent of cold stone. Lila backed away from the stairs. Something scraped above her, and she snapped her head up, just in time to glimpse the black mask high on the rail, staring down at her. The figure gave her a small wave before turning around and fleeing into the shadows. Lila pressed her back against the wall, still catching her breath. The Countess couldn’t have been the figure. The timelines didn’t match. The chandelier collapse, the slammed door, the disappearance, all in seconds. Lila’s stomach dropped. The Countess wasn’t alone. Someone else was helping her, or hunting for the same prize.

The velvet corridor swallowed Lila’s footsteps as she retraced her path toward the ballroom, the ruby earring clenched so tightly in her palm it left jagged crescents in her skin. By the time she reached the edge of the ballroom, nothing resembled the glittering gala it had been minutes ago. Guests stood in choking clusters, masks lay face down on tables, makeup smudged, their jeweled bravado traded for trembling confusion. A few shouted demands at the guards, who looked just as shaken, shuffling in loose circles with no clear direction.

“Where’s the Captain?” a woman wailed near the roulette tables.

“I—I don’t know,” a guard stammered. “He was supposed to be here.”

“Supposed to be?” the woman snapped. “In a lockdown?”

Lila paused, her breath catching. Morel had been the one locking down the doors. Giving orders. Controlling the room. But now, he’s gone. Lila’s pulse kicked as she slipped through the nearest employee-only passage.

The corridor here was quieter, the air humming with the static buzz of wall-mounted security monitors. She found the control room door cracked open, which was strange in itself. Inside, screens flickered uselessly, half of them blank. Her eyes skimmed the desks. Morel should have been anchored here, coordinating the lockdown. Instead, the room was abandoned, a ghost shell with the faint smell of metal and recognizable cologne lingering in the air. A map of the casino lay on the desk, routes circled in red pen. Patrol lines. Access points. Blind spots. One corridor, the same velvet hallway the masked figure had escaped into, was marked with a hand-drawn asterisk.

Her stomach turned.

She folded the map neatly and tucked it into her clutch.

She spun around to leave, but was met with the exit blocked by a broadened figure.

Captain Hugo Morel. Her breath stilled. He was perfectly composed. Mask in hand. Eyes unreadable. His shoes were dusted with fine white powder, the same dust that had coated the tarnished stairwell.

“Detective Crew,” he said, voice smooth as polished marble. “What brings you here?”