The Mysterious Train

The door stood open, swinging ever so slightly with the rhythm of the train. It groaned on its hinge, as if reluctant to reveal the mystery it guarded. Henri Duval stood still in the doorway of Compartment 12, arms folded across his chest, eyes scanning the room with slow, methodical precision.There was no chaos, no signs of violence—only silence. The room held its breath, just as the train hummed quietly beneath them.