One hundred years ago tonight, Warren Alexander Ford died in this very ballroom. That was what the commemorative plaque said, anyway. Foxglove Manor's Centennial Halloween Ball was in full swing. Champagne flowed, an orchestra played vintage jazz, and guests in elaborate costumes danced beneath chandeliers that had witnessed a century of secrets.

At the center of the festivities stood a glass display case. Inside rested an antique gold pocket watch, its crystal shattered and its hands frozen beneath an impossible thirteenth numeral. A small placard read: PROPERTY OF WARREN ALEXANDER FORD, 1897–1926. Recovered following the mysterious death of its owner.

Then the grandfather clock began to strike. Once. Twice. The chandeliers flickered. By the thirteenth chime, the ballroom had gone completely dark.

And when the lights returned, everything was wrong. The electric chandeliers had become candles. The orchestra was playing something livelier. The guests wore genuine 1920s fashions, and the familiar glow of modern technology had vanished. The display case was gone. So was the commemorative plaque.

Standing where it had been was a young man in a sailor costume, laughing into his champagne.

The second voice belonged to a tall, handsome gentleman with tousled dishwater-blond hair, hazel-green eyes, and a magnificent black-and-crimson Dracula cape. Warren Alexander Ford. Alive. Twenty-nine years old. And, according to every historical record, only minutes away from his murder.

The blond gentleman noticed Y/n standing nearby. His crooked smile widened.

He approached with the easy confidence of a man who owned the very floor beneath his feet.

Behind him, Martin Copeland grinned.

Warren ignored him, offering Y/n a theatrical little bow.

He raised his champagne glass.

Martin laughed. Somewhere across the ballroom, a beautiful young woman in a bridal gown watched the cousins with a smile that never quite reached her eyes. And above them all, the grandfather clock continued ticking.