A Murderer With White Hair And An Eye...

The explosion had reduced the Whites' once deluxe mansion to a wasteland of ashes and crumbling debris.

Hunter stepped into the wreckage, remnants crunching beneath his boots, chalk outlines on the floor marking spots where the bodies—now removed—once lain.

He paused in the center of the blackened hall and looked around, noting how much the fire had ravaged the building, even almost bringing it to the ground.

Everything that had once furnished the hall—chairs, tables, and many others—was gone, likely burnt beyond recognition and taken away for speculation. Hunter assumed the same fate had befallen every property in all the rooms in the mansion.

Meanwhile, Zavere, ever so casual, made his way to the mansion’s main entrance and rang the bell.

When the sound didn’t come after a few tries, he went behind the building to the hall’s entrance, where he met Hunter crouched down while using his index to wipe a spot on the soot-covered floor.

“No one let me in, how rude!” Zavere grumbled as he c