Jonathan Miles prided himself on a life of quiet, fastidious order. As a renowned art appraiser specializing in provenance disputes, his world revolved around the verifiable, the documented, the exquisite. His trip to Paris via the Eurostar was meant to be no different: a discreet valuation, a perfectly-booked boutique hotel, perhaps a quiet dinner. But as his taxi navigated the bustling Rue de Rivoli, anticipating the familiar opulence of his Parisian routine, a sudden, unsettling weight in his carry-on bag shattered his carefully constructed reality.

Reaching for a document, his fingers brushed against something undeniably organic, yet terrifyingly unfamiliar. With a growing dread that turned the summer air to ice, he unzipped the case fully. There, nestled amongst his pristine shirts and neatly folded ties, was a severed limb. Not human, not precisely. It was too perfectly preserved, too unnervingly lifelike, a hand-and-forearm, eerily resembling a primate's, yet possessing an uncanny, almost grotesque elegance, as if sculpted from petrified flesh. Its texture was wrong, its very presence an impossible, macabre intrusion.

Panic, cold and absolute, seized Jonathan. He couldn't go to the police; the optics were disastrous, the truth unbelievable. His only recourse: Lizzy.