The small matryoshka sat on the desk, its painted smile mocking Detective Wells. Inside, another doll, then another, until he reached the smallest one—a scrap of paper folded tightly. He unfolded it, revealing a single word: “Tonight.”

Wells glanced at the clock. 11:25 p.m.

His heart raced. He bolted to his car, tearing through empty streets toward the old warehouse.

But when he arrived, the door creaked open, and there she stood—alive. Behind her, the mastermind.

“You’re late,” the man said, stepping out of the shadows. “But not too late for my game.”

https://substack.com/@sdcb/note/c-69004062 (Tag: “Matryoshka”)