“Griffin Alexander Whitmore’s mansion was discovered ablaze at nine o’clock this morning. Only hours earlier, Whitmore had marked his birthday there, at the estate not far from the coast. Investigators suspect the fire broke out at approximately three in the morning—five hours after the festivities had ended…”

Click! With a tap upon his phone, Rai silenced the broadcast. Veron, who had been listening intently, started and flared with sudden anger.

“What the devil was that for?” she cried.

Rai gave no immediate answer. Instead, he exhaled a long, heavy breath, as though carrying a weight not easily cast aside.

“Enna has been calling you to the table,” he said at last, moving toward it with a gesture that bade Veron follow.

Enna, who had endured some thirty minutes of waiting, betrayed her own displeasure when Veron finally joined them.

“Wasn’t the television forbidden in the mornings?” she asked coolly, before setting herself to her meal. “Yes,” Rai returned, his tone clipped and final.

Once breakfast had concluded, the household dispersed, each turning to the business of the day and to their several destinations. Yet, before I proceed to recount the events that followed, it is only proper that I acquaint you with the chief persons of this story.

“Veronicque D’Bleu! Why have you left your dishes unwashed?” came Enna’s voice, rising from the lower floor with all the sharpness of a morning bell.

From above, Rai’s own tones answered, directed at yet quarter of the household. 

“Sienna Alfie Laputa, Veronicque D’Bleu! Must your room always resemble the aftermath of a storm?”

And lastly, with singular unanimity, both Enna and Veron cried out together: 

“Raizel Vyacheslavovich Makarov! Must you spend an eternity in the shower?”

Such was the customary overture to their mornings, a chorus of grievances that might have daunted less familiar ears. As for their connection, it was hardly familial—merely that of colleagues thrown together by circumstance.