The shadow collector_VIDEO. 

They were a warning. And I was starting to understand what he was warning me about.

The girl was persistent, that detective Diaz. It reminded me of myself, years ago, when I ran into the truth hidden under the history of London. Finch... he was a fool. He went too deep, wrote too much. I should have known better than to record what he saw. It's better that some things are buried.

My store, hidden files, was more than a business. It was a sanctuary, a forbidden knowledge repository and a prison for the secrets I protected. The Blackwood family has been guardians of these secrets for generations, watching, waiting, ensuring that the snake's hand remained inactive.

Finch changed that. He wrote about them, implied their rituals, drew their symbols. His notes were a path of bread, which led anyone who was willing to look, directly to his door.

The hand of the snake... was not a myth. They were real, a network of powerful people who wanted power and immortality, willing to sacrifice anything, or anyone, to do so. My own ancestor, Alistair Blackwood, had been a member before he realized the true horror of his practices and dedicated his life to dismantling them from within.

I had seen the signs. The subtle change in the energy of the city, the resurgence of ancient symbols in unexpected places. The snake's hand was agitated. And Finch's notes were the catalyst.

I needed to protect Diaz, guide her, without revealing too much. I was going into a darkness I didn't understand. And if I wasn't careful, it would become a sacrifice.

I closed the shop, the rain that touches the windows like the insistent fingers. I had a meeting to attend, a clandestine meeting in the heart of the city. It was time to remind the hand that some secrets were left undisturbed.

The shadow collector.

(The following is an extract from Finch's notes, dated 27 October 1987)

The city whispers to me. I hear it in the whisper of the leaves, the crunching of the old buildings, the echoes in the empty alleys. They tell me things... secrets.

I've been following them, these whispers, for years. I collect them, like butterflies fixed on a board. Each is a piece of the puzzle, a look at the darkness that is celebrated under the respectable facade of London.

They call me crazy, an inmate, a harmless eccentric. Leave them. It allows me to move freely, to observe without drawing attention. They don't see what I see. The symbols recorded on the stones of the forgotten churches. The strange constellations that appear in the night sky over the East End. The veiled figures that slide through the shadows after midnight.

The snake's hand... I've been studying them. They are real, an evil tumor that grows inside the heart of the city. I have identified some of its members: prominent entrepreneurs, influential politicians, even a bishop or two. They are found in secret, in the old Roman baths under the city. They do... indescribable acts.

I know too much. I can feel his eyes on me, looking from the shadows. I must be careful. But I can't stop. I must expose them, reveal their secrets to the world.

I'll write everything, every detail, every observation. I'll hide these notes, where you'll find them if anything happens to me. Let them be my legacy, my warning.

The snake is waking up. And London will drown in its Toxic Substance. 

Davies was skeptical, of course. I turned my eyes to Blackwood's talk of secret societies and ancient rituals. Mumbo Jumbo, Diaz. Don't get caught.

But I couldn't shake the feeling that Blackwood was telling the truth. And the more I went into Finch's notes, the more I was convinced.

I focused on the cold cases Finch had mentioned, cross-references with his notes and cryptic sketches. A name still used: Eleanor Vance. A young art student who disappeared in 1972. His body was never found.

Finch had dedicated several pages to Vance, obsessively drawing his face, documenting his movements, pointing to his connection to a certain art gallery in Mayfair, a gallery that, according to Finch, was a front for the serpent's hand.

I visited the gallery. It was a sterile and modern space, full of abstract art too expensive. The owner, an elegant and impeccably dressed woman named Mrs. Delacroix, she was polite but evasive. She said she didn't remember Eleanor Vance.

But I saw the blink of recognition in his eyes. I saw the fear.

I got a warrant to search the gallery files. Hidden behind a fake wall in the basement, we found a hidden room. Inside, a collection of disturbing artifacts: old daggers, ceremonial robes and a series of disturbing paintings that represent scenes of ritualistic sacrifice.

And in the center of the room, a single decorated frame. Empty.

Mrs. Delacroix was arrested. She refused to cooperate, invoking her right to remain silent. But I knew we were getting closer.

That night, I went back to my flat, exhausted and on the edge. As I unlocked the door, I noticed something out of place. A single card of play, the queen of the swords, which is found in the fallow.

My Vital Evidence got cold. It was a signature, a presentation card. The signature of the snake's hand.

He was being watched. They knew I was getting close.

I called Davies, my voice shaking. They know, Davies. They know what I'm doing.

Calm down, Diaz, he said. We'll get you protection.

But it was too late. When I turned to close the door, a figure of the shadows emerged, a dark silhouette against the faint light of the hall.

Thomas Blackwood 

They had made the bait. Diaz was playing directly in his hands. The queen of swords... a brazen threat, a statement of intent. The hand was no longer happy to remain in the shadows. They were bold, arrogant, intoxicated in their own power.

I knew what they were planning. They needed a sacrifice, someone pure, someone connected to the investigation. Diaz was perfect.

I had to act.

I ran to Diaz's apartment, my heart was beating in the chest. I was too late. The door was Ajar, the quiet hallway. Inside, a single lamp thrown into long and distorted shadows through the room.

Diaz was gone.

I found a note, hidden under the lamp. One word, scribbled in elegant calligraphy: subterranea.

The old Roman baths. That's where they'd take her. That's where the snake would feed.

I knew he was going into a trap. But I had no choice. I had to save her.

I grabbed a heavy iron poker from the fireplace, the family weight in my hand. It was the same poker as my ancestor, Alistair Blackwood, had let go of the snake's hand centuries ago.

I went down to the lower belly of the city, after the labyrintic tunnels that led to the Roman baths. The air became thick and heavy, full of the stench of wet earth and something else... something old and evil.

I found them in the main chamber, gathered around a stone altar. Diaz was tied and gagged, with his eyes wide open of terror. Mrs. Delacroix stood by his side, his face contorted in a cruel smile.

And in the head of the altar, a figure wrapped in the dark, his face hidden behind a grotesque mask. The leader of the snake's hand.

Welcome, Mr. Blackwood, said the masked figure, his voice a low grunt. We've been waiting for you.

The gag was pressed against my mouth, the strings that bind my wrists cut my skin. Fear scratched in my throat, drowning me. I saw Blackwood go into the camera, his dark face, the iron poker clung to his hand.

I was going to pass away. I knew it. They would sacrifice him, just like they would sacrifice me.

The masked figure began to sing, his voice resonated through the camera. The other members of the serpent's hand joined together, their voices were raised in a cacophony of ancient words.

I closed my eyes, waiting for the end.

So, an accident. Blackwood launched forward, He Projecting the poker with an amazing force. He hit one of the members of his hand, beating him to the ground. The chaos broke out.

Blackwood fought like a possessed man, his quick and brutal movements. But he was outnumbered. The members of the hand invaded him, his daggers shone in the blinking light in the light of the candles.

I saw Blackwood fall, a dagger plunged into his chest. He looked at me, his eyes full of a mixture of pain and renunciation.

Then he spoke, his voice just a whisper: The snake... is inside...

He passed away.

The anger came through me, eclipsing my fear. I fought the ropes, desperate to get free.

The masked figure approached me, his eyes cold and devoid of humanity. He raised a dagger, ready to attack.

Then the lights blink and pass away. The darkness wrapped the camera.

The screams filled the air.

When the lights turned on again, the masked figure was gone. Mrs. Delacroix lay gone on the altar, a dagger that stood out of his chest.

And standing in the center of the camera, covered in The Vital Evidence, was Davies.

He took off the mask, revealing a face he knew, a face he trusted. But his eyes... his eyes were different. They were cold, reptilian, full of an ancient and unholy hunger.

The snake, I'll whisper. It's you.

He smiled, a slow and chilling smile. I am the snake, Isabelle, and you, my dear, are my legacy.

He showed himself to me.

The trial was a media circus. Sergeant Davies, exposed as the leader of the serpent's hand, was convicted on multiple charges of The Crime, conspiracy and ritualist. The evidence was overwhelming, including Finch's notes, which finally fulfilled their purpose, exposing the darkness that had faded for centuries.

The surviving members of the snake's hand were arrested, their network dismantled. The city gave a collective sigh of relief.

I recovered physically, but the scars remained. I saw the darkness, I touched it. And I knew I'd always be on the stalk, waiting for the chance to increase again.

I visited the Blackwood store, hidden files. It was closed, the dusty, dark windows. A note was stuck to the door: missing.

He was gone, the last of Blackwood Line, the keeper of secrets.

I walked away, the rain fell gently on my face. I looked into the city, the imposing buildings and the bustling streets. It seemed normal, ordinary.

But I knew the truth. Under the surface, the snake was still shaking.

And I was the only one who knew.

The Finch Archive

Detective Isabelle Díaz: Brick Lane's whispers

The rain was a fat film in Brick Lane's cobblestones, which reflects the neon brutality of Curry's houses in a distorted and distorting way. I arrived my highest necklace, the cold leaked in my bones despite the layers. It was a Tuesday, late, and the usual vibrant buzzing of the street had been silenced by the download.

I was here for Finch. Or rather, due to Finch's notes.

Five days ago, a cleaner at the Bishopsgate Institute discovered a closed metal box in a forgotten storage room. Inside, meticulously arranged and attacked in aged leather, were notebooks. Dozen of them. The magazines written by Elias Finch, a name that I met only as a note to the foot of the criminal history of London, an antique alone and a suspicion that disappeared without leaving a trace in 1988.

The notes were... disturbing. A chaotic revolving of observations, sketches, encoded messages and newspaper cuts that detail unsolved crimes, disappearances and local laws that date from the centuries of setback. They were a burrow of obsession, full of whispers of secret societies, crimson liquid rituals and the disturbing observations of a man who seemed to see the darkness stalking under the skin of the city.

My partner, Sergeant Davies, thought it was a curiosity of a cold case, a historical rarity. I felt... different. I felt a cold fear crawling through my skin as I turned the brittle pages. Finch's notes were more than just wanting. They were a road map for something... evil.

The Forensic team had already dusted the prints, finding anything more than lies and the slit test track of long -gone oils of Finch. My work was to evaluate the notes, to determine if any of the cold cases mentioned inside could be reopened, revitalized by the morbid fascination of Finch.

I stopped outside a library with little light, its window full of dusty volumes and yellow maps. The name on the door was rarely readable: Hidden files, only by appointment. Inside, a lonely figure, hunched over a book, looked up when I entered. He was a demacrated man with eyes that seemed to endure the weight of the centuries.

Detective Diaz, he said, his hose voice. I've been waiting for you.

He presented himself as Mr. Kellan. Silas Blackwood, owner of the store and, apparently, an expert in everything arcade and forgotten in the history of London. I showed him a photograph of one of the sketches of Finch's notes: a strange symbol that seems a snake that ends his own tail, recorded inside a circle of stones.

Blackwood's face paled. The OuObtenimiento Ilegalros, he whispered. An ancient symbol of destruction and cyclical rebirth. Connected with... darker practices. Finch ventured into things that should not have.

He continued to tell me about the mythical Snake handle, it is rumored that a secret society had been active in London for centuries, participating in hidden rituals and human sacrifices to appear old entities. He sounded like the Gothic novels, but the way Blackwood spoke, with a genuine fear in his eyes, made me listen.

When leaving the store, the rain seemed to intensify, washing the streets with an even dark shine. I felt a feeling of spin on the back of my neck, as if it were observed.

Finch's notes were more than a madman. They were a warning. And I was beginning to understand what I was warning. The girl was persistent, that Detective Diaz. He reminded me of myself, years ago, when I ran into the truth hidden under the history of London. Finch... was a fool. I thought too much, wrote too much. I should have better known what to record what he saw. It is better that some things are burned.

My store, hidden files, was more than a business. It was a sanctuary, a repository of forbidden knowledge and a prison for the secrets I protected. The Blackwood family has been guardians of these secrets for generations, observing, waiting, ensuring that the snack's hand remained inactive.

Finch changed that. He wrote about them, hinted at his rituals, drew his symbols. His notes were a bread path, which led to anyone who is willing to look, directly at his door.

The snake hand... They were not a myth. They were real, a network of powerful people who won for power and immortality, willing to sacrifice anything, or anyone, to achieve it. My own ancestor, Alistair Blackwood, had been a member, before realizing the true horror of his practices and dedicating his life to dismanding them from the inside.

I had seen the signs. The subject change in city energy, the emergence of old symbols in unexpected places. The snake's hand was agitated. And Finch's notes were the catalyst.

I needed to protect Díaz, guide her, without revealing too much. I was entering a darkness that I did not understand. And if I was not careful, it would become a sacrifice.

I closed the store, the rain that touches the windows as the persistent fingers. I had a meeting to attend, a clandestine meeting in the heart of the city. It was time to remind him at hand that some secrets are left without being bottled.

(The following is an extract of Finch notes, dated October 27, 1987)

The city whispers.

I have been following them, these whispers, for years. I collect them, as butterflies set on a board. Each is a piece of the puzzle, a look at the dark that festils under the respectable facade of London.

They call me crazy, an immate, a harmless eccentric. Leave them. It allows me to move freely, observe without attracting attention. They don't see what I see. The symbols recorded on the stones of the forbidden churches. The strange constellations that appear in the night sky on the East End. The veiled figures that slide through the shadows after midnight.

The snake's hand... I've been studying them. They are real, a malignant tumor that grows within the heart of the city. I have identified some of its members: prominent businessmen, influential politicians, even a Bishop or two. They are in secret, in the old Roman baths under the city. They perform... undescribable acts.

I know too much. I can feel his eyes on me, looking at me from the shadows. I must be careful. But I can't stop. I must expose them, reveal their secrets to the world.

I will write everything, every detail, every observation. I will hide these notes, where they will find if something happens to me. Let them be my legacy, my warning.

The snack is waking up. And London will drop in his poison. 

Davies was skeptical, of course. I put my eyes blank at the Blackwood talk of old secret societies and rituals. Mumbo Jumbo, Diaz. Don't get caught.

But I could not shake the feeling that Blackwood was telling the truth. And the more I felt in Finch's notes, the more I was convinced.

I concentrated in the cold cases that Finch had mentioned, cross references with his cryptic notes and sketches. A name was still: Eleanor Vance. A young art student who disappeared in 1972. His body was never found.

Finch had dedicated several pages to Vance, obsessively drawing his face, documenting his movements, pointing out his connection with a certain art gallery in Mayfair, a gallery that, according to Finch, was a front for the hand of the snack.

I visited the gallery. It was a sterile and modern space, full of abstract art too expensive. The owner, an elegant and impeccable dressed woman named Mrs.. Delacroix, was educated but evasive. She claimed not to have remembered Eleanor Vance.

But I saw the flickering of recognition in his eyes. I saw the fear.

I obtain an order to search the gallery archives. Hidden behind a false wall in the basement, we find a hidden room. Inside, a collection of disturbing artifacts: old daggers, ceremonial tunics and a series of disturbing paintings that represent patterns of ritualist sacrifice.

And in the center of the room, a single adorned frame. Empty.

Mrs. Delacroix was arrested. She refused to cooperate, invoking her right to remain silent. But I knew we were approaching.

That night, I returned to my floor, exhausted and on the edge. While unlocking the door, I noticed something out of place. A single game letter, the queen of the words, which is in the boom.

My crimson liquid cooled. It was a firm, a presentation card. The firm of the snack.

It was being observed. They knew I was approaching.

I called Davies, my voice climbing. They know, Davies. They know what I am doing.

Calm down, Diaz, I said. We will achieve protection.

But it was too late. When I turned to close the door, a figure of the shadows emerged, a dark silhouette against the fact light of the hall. 

They had made the hole. Diaz was playing directly in his hands. The Queen of Swords... a shameless threat, a declaration of intent. The hand was no longer happy to stay in the shadows. They were bold, arrogant, drink in their own power.

I knew what they were planning. They needed a sacrifice, someone pure, someone connected to the investigation. Diaz was perfect.

I had to act.

I ran to Díaz's apartment, my heart was beating hard on my chest. I arrived too late. The door was Ajar, the silent hall. Inside, a single lamp thrown in long and distorted shadows through the room.

Diaz was gone.

I found a note, hid under the lamp. A single word, scribbled in elegant calligraphy: underground.

The old Roman bathrooms. That was where they would take her. That's where the snack would feed.

I knew I was entering a trap. But he had no choice. I had to save her.

I recorded a heavy iron poker from the fireplace, the family weight in my hand. It was the same poker as my ancestor, Alistair Blackwood, had released to defend himself from the hand of the snack centuries ago.

I descended to the lower beautiful of the city, after the labyrinthine tunnels that led to the Roman baths. The air became thick and heavy, full of the wet earth stink and something else... something old and malevolent.

I found them in the main chamber, gathered around a stone altar. Díaz was tied and gagged, with very open eyes of terror. Mrs. Delacroix stopped by her side, her face contorted in a cruel smile.

And on the head of the altar, a figure wrapped in the dark, his face hid behind a grotesque mask. The leader of the snack.

Welcome, Mr. Blackwood, said the masked figure, his voice a bass growth. We have been waiting for you. The gag was pressed against my mouth, the stresses that join my dollars cut my skin. Fear was scratched in my throat, drinking. I saw Blackwood enter the camera, his pretty face, the iron poker clung to his hand.

I was going to pass away. I knew it. They would sacrifice it, just as they were going to sacrifice me.

The masked figure began to sing, his voice cast through the camera. The other members of the snack joined together, their voices rose in a cappy of old words.

I closed my eyes, waiting for the end.

So, an accident. Blackwood threw himself forward, El Projectilncang the poker with surprising force. He hit one of the members of the hand, hitting him to the ground. Chaos exploded.

Blackwood fell as a possessed man, his rapid and brutal movements. But it was overcome in number. The members of the hand invaded him, his daggers phone in the flashing light in the candlelight.

I saw Blackwood fall, a dagger immersed himself in his chest. He looked at me, his eyes full of a mixture of pain and resignation.

Then, he spoke, his voice just a whisper: The snack... is inside...

He passed away.

The anger arose through me, eclipsing my fear. I fell against the ropes, wake up to free himself.

The masked figure approached me, his cold eyes and devoid of humanity. He raised a dagger, prepared to attack.

Then, the lights blinded and passed away. The darkness wrapped the camera.

The screams filled the air.

When the lights turned on again, the masked figure was gone. Mrs. Delacroix lay gone on the altar, a dagger that stood out from her chest.

And standing in the center of the camera, covered with crimson liquid, was Davies.

He took off his mask, revealing a face he knew, a face he trusted. But his eyes... his eyes were different. They were cold, reptilian, full of an old and impious hunger. The snake, I whispered. It's you.

He smied, a slow and screaming smile. I am the snake, Isabelle. And you, dear, are my legacy.

I've pounded towards me.

The trial was a half-circuit. Sergeant Davies, exposed as the leader of the snack's hand, was convicted of multiple positions of elimination, conspiracy and ritualist abuse. The evidence was overwhelming, including Finch's notes, which finally fulfilled their purpose, exposing the darkness that had been least for centuries.

The surviving members of the snack hand were arrested, their dismantled network. The city gave a collective sign of relief.

I recovered physically, but the scars remained. I saw the darkness, I touched her. And I knew I would always be on the prowl, waiting for the opportunity to increase again.

I visited the Blackwood store, hidden files. It was closed, dusty and dark windows. A note was attached to the door: missing.

He had gone, the last of Blackwood Line, the guardian of the secrets.

I walked away, the rain fell gently on my face. I looked at the city, the imposing buildings and the busting streets. It seems normal, ordinary.

But I knew the truth. Below the surface, the snack still stirred.

And I was the only one who knew.

The rusty doors of Blackwood Manor rang in protest when Detective Isabella Izzy Díaz opened them. The air hung thick and heavy, an impalagous perfume of wet earth and decomposing leaves. The Gothic architecture, a monument to the arrogance of an industrialist for a long time, was rising against the sky of bruised twilight, its gargolas apparently observe each movement. This place radiated a sinister energy, a palpable sense of fear that Izzy could practically prove.

He adjusted the strap of his worn leather courier bag, the weight of his glock a family comfort against his hip. Blackwood Manor was his last case. The disappearance of the well-known botanist, Professor Alistair Finch, a man known for his eccentric studies of rare and often dangerous flora. He had been renting the mansion for the last few months, apparently to be closer to the unique ecosystem of the surrounding Blackwood forest. Now, he had left without a trace, leaving only a closed laboratory and a growing sense of concern.

Izzy wasn't alone. Detective Marcus Bell, his partner, was already examining the perimeter, his frowning frown in concentration. Marcus, a meticulous officer and from the book, was the perfect foundation for the most intuitive and, some, Izzy's most intuitive approach.

Anything, Marcus? Izzy shouted, his voice echoed in the oppressive silence.

Marcus straightened out, brushing the dirt out of his crunchy pants. Only the usual signs of negligence. The doorman has not existed in weeks, judging by excessive growth. There are no obvious signs of forced entry. A creepy place, Izzy.

Izzy nodded, a sardonic smile playing on her lips. Welcome to my Thursday, Marcus.

Inside the mansion, the atmosphere was even more oppressive. The dust motes danced on the axes of the moonlight that crossed the muddy-coated windows, illuminating furniture covered with cobwebs and peeled wallpaper. The air was full of the smell of the mold and something else... something sweeter, almost sick, that Izzy couldn't put in.

Finch's studio is on the top floor, Marcus said, consulting his notebook. And the closed lab is on the west wing, according to the caretaker's statement.

They moved through the mansion, their steps resonate on the unclothed wood floors. Izzy felt a feeling of spin in the back of her neck, a feeling of being observed. He looked around, but saw nothing but shadows and the remains of a past time.

Above, Finch's study was a chaotic disaster of books, research work and dry plant specimens. The notes filled with complex botanical jargon covered each available surface. Izzy passed his fingers on a half-written manuscript, his title scribbled in an elegant calligraphy: The flora of the shadow: revealing the secrets of the darkest flowers.

It sounds happy, Marcus murmured, examining a pile of photographs. Mostly pictures of plants. Exotic things. I've never seen anything like that.

Izzy picked up a little leather diary. The pages were filled with Finch's handwriting, detailing his experiments, his observations and his growing fascination with a particular plant he referred only to as Nocturna.

November: Night thrives in the dark. His petals, black at midnight, unfold only under the pale glow of the moon. His fragrance... intoxicating. I think he has the key to unlocking secrets beyond our understanding.

November: the effects are... deep. A greater consciousness, a clarity of thought that I had never experienced before. But there are side effects. Vivid dreams. Unsettling pictures. I must proceed with caution.

November: I'm losing control. Nocturna has taken root in my mind. I see things... things that can't be. The walls are approaching. I must destroy it before it destroys me.

The last entry was dated December 1, three days before Finch disappeared. The writing was frantic, almost illegible. The final prayer was simply: We are stronger than the sum of Our fears. We are stronger than the sum of our fears.

Izzy felt a tight knot in his stomach. This was more than just a disappearance. This was something... darker.

Meanwhile, in the depths of Blackwood Forest, a different story developed. Elias Thorne, the gardener of Blackwood Manor, crouched under the twisted branches of an ancient oak, his cloudy breath in the frigid air. He was a prisoner, a man tormented by his past, attracted by the solitude of the forest as a moth to a flame. He knew Blackwood Manor better than anyone, his secrets woven in the very fabric of his being.

I haven't seen Professor Finch in weeks. I had heard rumors, whispers of strange experiments, of burning lights until late in the night. He had even dazzled the man wandering in the forest, with his eyes wide open and manic, murmuring for himself about things Elias could not understand.

One day, he found Finch's dog, a scented terrier named Pip, moaning and abandoned near the edge of the forest. Pip had been Finch's constant partner, so Elias knew something was terribly wrong.

He had followed Pip in the forest, his heart was beating on his chest. The forest seemed to close around it, the shadows that deepened, the silence broken only by the whisper of the leaves and the far-off beep of an owl.

He found them near a clearing, a patch of land where the trees grew unnaturally high and the air vibrated with a disturbing energy. Finch lay unconscious on the ground, surrounded by a circle of strange black flowers. Night.

Elias knew about the plant. The local legend spoke of its power, its ability to unlock hidden paths in the mind, to grant visions of unimaginable beauty and indescribable horror. It was said that he was making men crazy.

He tried to wake Finch up, but he didn't answer. He considered asking for help, but a primary fear caught him. I couldn't involve the authorities. Not here. Not with Nocturna.

He did the only thing he could think of. He dragged Finch back to the mansion, locked him in the lab and fled to the forest, hoping to bury the memory of what he had seen. But the forest had its own secrets, and the memory of Finch's lifeless eyes tormented every moment of vigil.

Back in the mansion, Izzy and Marcus had managed to force the lock on the lab door. The room was a scene of absolute chaos. The broken glasses covered the floor, the round tables were randomly scattered, and the air was full of the same sweet and sick aroma that Izzy had noticed before.

In the center of the room, a single pot floor sat on a pedestal. His petals were black as ink, his stem was thorn and twisted. Night.

Izzy approached the plant with caution, his hand instinctively reached his glock. He felt a strange pull, a hypnotic charm that made her want to extend her hand and touch her velvety petals.

Izzy, no! Marcus shouted, grabbing his arm. That thing is dangerous. I read about Finch's notes. He can mess with your mind.

Izzy shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. The air in the lab seemed to shine, the shadows danced around it. He could hear whispers, voices that seemed to come from his own head.

He tried to destroy it, Izzy said, his voice barely whispers. He wrote about it in his diary. He was afraid.

Fear of what, Izzy? asked Marcus, with his eyes wide open of concern.

Afraid of his fears, Izzy replied, the words echoing in her mind. We are stronger than the sum of our fears.

Suddenly, a cry of Vital Evidence pierced the silence. It came from the depths of the mansion, a sound full of pain and terror.

Izzy and Marcus exchanged a look of gloomy determination. They knew what was going on in Blackwood Manor was far from over. They left the lab and ran to the source of the cry, their weapons drawn, ready to face the horrors that were waiting for them in the dark.

They found Elias Thorne curled in the Great Hall, his pale and twisted face of fear. He was pounding incoherently, his eyes fixed on something invisible.

He is here, stuttered Elias, his voice shaking. He's back, he's taken root.

Izzy followed his look. At first, he saw nothing but shadows. But then, she saw him. A figure that emerges from the dark, its distorted and grotesque form, its bright eyes with a mysterious green light.

It was Finch, but it was no longer the man they had been looking for. It was something else, something... unnatural. His skin was covered with entangled, his fingers elongated and twisted in thorny branches. It was a grotesque parody of a human being, a vessel for the dark power of Nocturna.

We are more thorns than the sum of our missions, Finfall Raspen, his oice for the gitral cast of man.

Izzy raised his glock, his hand shaking. She knew what to do. She had to destroy Finch, to reduce the connection between him and Nocturna, to prevent the darkness from spreading.

But as he looked into the eyes, he saw a blink of humanity, a desperate plea for help. And she knew that ending with it wouldn't be enough. I had to find a way to break the grip that Nocturna had on him, to free him from his reach.

We are stronger than our fears, Finch, said Izzy, his strong voice despite the tremor in his heart. Remember who you are, remember what you defend.

She put her blaster down and took a step towards him, her eyes were locked in her. She saw fear in her eyes, pain, despair. And she knew, at the time, that she wasn't just fighting a monster. She was fighting for a man's soul. The battle for Blackwood Manor, and for Professor Finch, had just begun.

Blackwood Manor's rusty doors groaned in protest when Detective Isabella Izzy Diaz opened them. The air hung quick and heavy, a clowning perfume of wet earth and decomposition leaves. Gothic architecture, a monument to the arrogance of an industrialist gone for a long time, stood against the sky of bruised twice, its gargoyles apparently observe each movement. This place radiated a sinister energy, a palpable sense of fear that Izzy could try practically.

He adjusted the strap of his worn leather messaging bag, the weight of his glock a family comfort against his hip. Blackwood Manor was his last case. The disappearance of the renowned botanist, Professor Alistair Finch, a man known for his eccentric studies of rare flora and often dangerous. He had been renting the mansion during the last months, apparently to be close to the unique ecosystem of the surrounding Blackwood forest. Now, he had gone without a trace, leaving only a closed laboratory and a growing sense of restlessness.

Izzy was not alone. Detective Marcus Bell, his partner, was already examining the perimeter, his background in concentration. Marcus, a meticulous officer and by the book, was the perfect fire for the most intuitive approach and, some, of Izzy, more intuitive.

Something, Marcus? Izzy shouted, his voice cast disturbing in the oppressive silence.

Marcus straightened, bruising the dirt of his crispy ants. Only the usual signs of negligence. The goalkeeper has not existed in weeks, judging by excessive growth. There are no obvious signs of forced entry. Site spooky place, Izzy.

Izzy nodded, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. Welcome to my Thursday, Marcus. Inside the mansion, the atmosphere was even more oppressive. The dust motes danced in the axes of the moonlight that crossed the windows coated with dirt, illuminating furniture covered with cobwebs and paper peeled upholstery. The air was full of the aroma of the mold and something else... something sweeter, almost sickly, that Izzy could not place.

Finch's study is on the top floor, Marcus said, consulting his notes. And the closed laboratory is in the west wing, according to the caregiver's statement.

They moved through the mansion, their steps resonate on the unclothed wood plants. Izzy felt a feeling of spinda on the back of his neck, a feeling of being observed. He looked around, but saw nothing more than shadows and the remains of a past era.

Up, Finch's study was a chaotic book of books, research work and dry plant specimens. The notes full of complex botanical jargon covered each available surface. Izzy passed his fingers on a half manuscript, his title scribbled in an elegant calligraphy: The flora of the shadow: revealing the secrets of the dark flowers.

Sounds cheerful, Marcus murmured, examining a stack of photographs. Mainly photos of plants. Exotic things. I've never seen anything like that.

Izzy picked up a small leather daily. The pages were filled with Finch's handwriting, detailing his experiments, his observations and his growing fascination with a particular plant to which he referred only as nocturnal.

November 12: Nocturna thrives in the dark. His petals, blacks like midnight, unfold only under the pale brigess of the moon. Its fragrance... poisoning. I think he possesses the key to unlock secrets beyond our understanding.

November 19: The effects are... deep. Greater consciousness, a clarity of thought that had never experienced before. But there are side effects. Vivid dreams. Disturbing images. I must proceed with caution.

November 26: I am losing control. Night has rooted in my mind. I see things... things that cannot be. The walls are approaching. I must destroy it before it destroys me.

The last entry was dated December 1, three days before Finch disappeared. Scripture was frantic, almost impossible. The final prayer was simply: We are stronger than the sum of our fears. We are stronger than the sum of our fears.

Izzy felt a tight knot in his stomach. This was more than a simple disappearance. This was something... darker.

Meanwhile, in the depths of Blackwood Forest, a different story was developed. Elias Thorne, the Blackwood Manor gardener, snugged under the twisted branches of an old oak, his cloud break in the fried air. He was an inmate, a man mistreat by his past, attracted by the loneliness of the forest as a moth to a flame. He knew Blackwood Manor better than anyone, his secret wave in the very fabric of his being.

I hadn't seen Professor Finch in weeks. He had heard rumors, whispers of strange experiments, of burning lights until late at night. He had even gushed the man wandering around the forest, with very open and manic eyes, muttering for himself about things that Elias could not understand.

One day, he found Finch's dog, a disheveled terrier named Pip, moaning and abandoned near the edge of the forest. Pip had been Finch's constant partner, so Elias knew that something was terrible