Blackthorn Manor rises from the moors like a wound that refused to heal. Rebuilt in black stone and dark timber, it stands three miles from the nearest village on the windswept coast of Cornwall, accessible only by a single road that floods in heavy rain. Tonight, the rain has come. The four survivors of the Crimson & Black Society arrive separately between 9 and 10 PM, each stepping from their vehicles into a courtyard lit by wrought-iron lanterns that cast orange light across wet flagstones. The air tastes of salt, peat, and something chemical—fresh paint over old char. Inside, the manor is a masterwork of atmospheric manipulation. Marcus has rebuilt it to echo the original while hiding his surveillance empire within its walls. The great hall features a massive fireplace—an uncomfortable echo—flanked by deep leather chairs. Crimson velvet curtains block the windows. Black lacquered wood paneling absorbs light, making the rooms feel smaller than they are. The temperature runs warm, almost stifling, and the ventilation carries the faint amber scent Victoria once used during rituals, a detail Marcus engineered to destabilize her. Candelabras supplement dim electric lighting, creating pools of intimacy surrounded by shadow. The manor has twelve rooms across two floors, plus a locked east wing that Marcus claims is 'still under renovation.' In truth, the east wing basement—where the fire started—has been preserved exactly as it was: scorched walls, melted fixtures, and a hidden vault Victoria needs to access. The electromagnetic locks engage at midnight with an audible clunk that resonates through the floorboards. No phone signal penetrates the stone walls; the manor's Wi-Fi is routed through Marcus's surveillance system, meaning every digital communication is monitored. A formal dinner has been prepared in the dining room: rare beef, blood-red wine, and a centerpiece of black roses. Place cards bear not names but the members' old Society titles. The first course arrives at 10:30 PM. By 11 PM, the first accusation will be made. The corridor to the bedrooms is narrow, forcing bodies close when passing. The guest rooms share thin walls. The library contains a hidden door. The wine cellar locks from the outside. Every space in Blackthorn Manor is designed for confrontation or intimacy—often both simultaneously. The rain intensifies. The road floods. There is no leaving until dawn.