Chicago, 1935—a city of shadows and steel, where oftentimes the answer to a mystery is right there in black and white. Charles Vandergrift stood as a pillar of virtue, a financier whose wealth fueled shelters and soup kitchens for the city’s forgotten. But beneath his polished facade simmered a relentless fixation. For years, he chased The Blood of Apophis, a ruby carved from legend—its crimson gleam a shard of some ancient, unquiet realm. A newspaper clipping later found in Ed Miller’s office traced his pursuit: funding expeditions, bartering with curators, all to claim it for Chicago’s Academy of Science Museum. In the spring of ’35, his gamble paid off—he unearthed it from a crumbling overseas dig, its eerie pulse cradled in his hands. He sealed it in a steel box, envisioning a grand reveal. Yet the ruby gnawed at him—its glow haunted his sleep, threading shadows through his thoughts. Charles’ private notes revealed a mounting dread—the stone’s presence felt alive, sinister. He locked the box in his study safe, torn between awe and a creeping urge to destroy it.

Tony “The Shiv” Marcone reigned over Chicago’s underworld, a titan of brutality and greed. His syndicate thrived on rigged bets and bloodied knuckles, but his hunger stretched further. In early August, a museum clerk with a whiskey-soaked tongue let slip a tale at a dingy bar. He’d glimpsed Charles unveiling the ruby at a hushed scholars’ dinner, its light casting a spectral sheen. The whisper reached Tony’s ears. He cared little for archaeology—only the ruby’s promise of profit or dominion. He unleashed his deadliest enforcer to seize it.

On Tuesday, August 14, Charles was found dead in his study, sprawled across the floor. The coroner fixed the time at 8:30 p.m., though the method—blood, a garrote, a hidden blade?—remained veiled. Charlotte, his wife, had been in Boston, visiting her mother. She returned late that night, stepping into a silent house to find him gone. She called the police, her alibi unshakable under scrutiny—no suspect here. Days later, sifting through his study, her fingers brushed the safe’s cold steel. Inside lay the box, its weight oppressive, its surface unmarked. She didn’t dare open it, sensing its tie to the shadows that claimed him. A friend’s voice echoed in her mind, urgent and low: “Take it to Ed Miller—he’s the only detective in this city you can trust.”

Grief tightening her chest, Charlotte gathered the box and stepped into the night. The streets blurred past—gaslights flickering, horns wailing—as she made for Miller’s office, a dingy outpost in a city of liars. She clutched the ruby’s secret, trusting him to unravel the truth, her husband’s blood still a fresh wound driving her forward.