Papier-mâché masks and gleaming chandeliers hid more than faces that night. The masquerade ball pulsed with laughter, music, and swirling gowns, yet unease slithered through the candlelit air.
Guests toast with jeweled goblets, unaware that one dancer’s smile conceals sharpened intent. Cloaked in silk and anonymity, the killer drifted between partners, hand lingering just a moment too long on a trembling wrist.
When the clock struck midnight, a scream shattered the harmony. A mask fell, not the killer’s, but the victim’s, eyes wide and glassy. The violins never stopped playing, as though the ball itself conspired to hide the truth.
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