The flicker of the neon sign outside my dingy office window throws just enough light on the scrap of paper someone slid under my door. I pick it up, unfolding it like it's a delicate artifact that might crumble to dust if handled too roughly. My gaze slides over the hastily scrawled words. "Midnight. The old Langston warehouse. Come alone." That's it. There's no signature, so I have no clue who might have sent it.


I crush the note in my fist, a sense of foreboding gnawing at my gut. That place has been nothing but a haunt for rats and ghosts of industry long past. A perfect spot for a clandestine meet—or an ambush. Yet, there's that itch at the back of my mind, that whisper that this isn't some prank. It could be the lead I've been waiting for in the Morrison case. The one that's kept me up nights, poring over files until everything blurred into a meaningless jumble of names and faces.


"Damn it," I mutter under my breath. Curiosity always gets the better of me. But this time, it's not just curiosity; it's that relentless drive to find the truth. Even a creature like Morrison didn't deserve such a dark end. Someone out there knows something they shouldn't, and I need to know what that is.


Grabbing my coat, I check the .38 snub nose revolver tucked in my shoulder holster—a familiar weight against my chest. The night calls with its siren song of secrets and danger, and I'm already out the door, striding down the dimly lit hallway. My footsteps resound on the linoleum, a staccato rhythm that matches the racing of my pulse.


"Be smart, Thorn," I chide myself softly. Every shadow could be friend or foe. In this city, you can't tell the difference until it's too late. But I can't turn away from this, not now. Maybe it's the detective in me, or maybe it's that stubborn streak that won't let me leave a puzzle unfinished. Whatever it is, it's got its hooks in deep, and I'm already halfway to the warehouse before I can talk myself out of it.

"Midnight," I repeat, the word echoing in the hollow silence of the streets. Midnight at the old Langston warehouse. It's a promise, a threat, a tantalizing possibility of answers. And I intend to uncover them, whatever it takes.


The rain's a relentless assault on the collar of my trench coat as I stand before Langston's forsaken monument to commerce long abandoned. Puddles gather like murky oases in the cracked asphalt sea, each drop an echo of the city's disdain for forgotten places. The warehouse looms, a skeletal husk, its windows shattered eyes staring blankly into the void.


As I approach, the sound of water dripping from rusted gutters plays a discordant symphony. Graffiti tags bleed down the walls, vibrant scars of color on the gray palette of decay. They're the territory marks of street artists and gangs, hieroglyphs that speak of life amidst desolation. The decrepit building has a story, each broken pane and defaced wall a chapter in its grim narrative.


My hand rests on the butt of my revolver, the grip cold through the fabric. It's a small comfort, a steel companion whispering the possibility of danger at every shadowed corner. The door creaks open at my touch, protesting the disturbance after so many silent years.


Inside, the cavernous space swallows me whole. My footsteps are the only conversation here, the tap of my shoes against concrete a lonely call and response with unseen specters. Shadows play tricks on my eyes, shapes moving just beyond certainty. The air tastes old, heavy with sour musk and mold. Water drips somewhere in the distance, a metronome keeping time with my racing heart.


I pause, letting the silence fill my ears, searching for the whisper of another's presence. But there's nothing—just the slow inhale and exhale of the building, breathing around me like a slumbering giant.


"Answers better be worth this," I mutter, my voice swallowed by the vastness. Morrison's unsolved murder hangs over me, a specter more haunting than any ghoul this place could conjure. That message, the promise of a lead, it's got me chasing shadows. But I'm no stranger to the dark; it's where truth likes to hide, curling up tight until someone brave or foolish enough comes looking.


A shadow peels from the walls, a sliver of darkness taking form. Then, she's there before me—Lily, a whisper made flesh. Her coat hangs off her shoulders like folded wings, a shade darker than the night itself. The dim light toys with her silhouette, sharp cheekbones casting shadows that flicker and dance across her face. Her eyes, though, they're a different story—a clear, piercing blue, almost glowing in the gloom, holding depths I can't fathom.


"Vic Thorn," she breathes, my name a secret spilling from her lips. "You came."


"Messages like yours don't land every day." My voice sounds steadier than I feel. "What do you know about Morrison?"


She tilts her head, a stray curl tumbling across her forehead, a veil over one enigmatic eye. "More than you could guess," she says, her tone a coy tease. "More than..."


Her words snap short. We both freeze, instincts screaming silent alarms. A crate creaks behind us, a telltale groan of weight shifting in the shadows. Lily's eyes flick to mine, a brief spark of warning before she steps aside, melting back into the dark.


As I turn, a hulking figure steps out. He's a mountain of a man, features obscured, but his intent is clear as the blade he's toying with in his hand—a member of the fae mob, no doubt. They always did have a knack for dramatic entrances.


"Thorn," he growls, his voice a gravelly rasp. "You shouldn't be here."


"Neither should you," I shoot back, keeping my tone even, "unless you're in the market for tetanus."


He doesn't laugh. The knife catches a gleam, a silent promise of violence. I size him up, weighing my chances.


"Talk fast, Thorn. Why are you nosing around here?"


"Someone thinks I should."


"Bad move," he says. His knife agrees with a wicked flash.


Lily's gaze burns into my back, a siren call to tread carefully. Her secrets remain locked tight—for now. But with this hunk of muscle and malice standing between us, those secrets might just stay whispers in the shadows.


Rain hammers the warehouse roof, a staccato beat to the tense silence stretching between me and the Fae mob's brute. He's a mountain of threat wrapped in leather and shadows. I'm the fool who climbed it.


"Your boss send you to clean up his messes?" I ask, voice steady as my pulse lurches.


"Boss doesn't know I'm here," he grunts. "This one's personal."


"Got a name, or should I just call you Trouble?"


"Names are for tombstones, Thorn." He takes a step forward, the knife in his hand a sliver of death begging to slice the space between us. "You're digging where you don't belong."


I could say the same for him. The air is thick with unspoken threats, every breath shared laced with animosity. Lily's secrets, whatever they are, have stirred more than just my own curiosity—they've rattled the cages of these mystical mobsters. But if she trusts me enough to lure me here, then I'm not backing down.


"Word on the street is your lot's been meddling in mortal ends," I retort, letting my gaze drift to his weapon. "Makes people nervous, you know? Bad for business."


"Your concern's touching," he snarls, "but misplaced."


"Here's the thing," I continue, eyes locked on his. "I find things out. It's what I do. And when I dig up whatever dirt you're trying to bury, it'll be worse for you. More eyes watching. More whispers."


"Is that a threat?"


"Consider it a professional courtesy." My fingers itch at my side, twitching for a weapon I can't reach in time. I can feel the shift in air pressure as his arm tenses, ready to bring that blade across my throat.


"Courtesy's overrated," he sneers, stepping closer, bringing the smell of wet leather and hostility with him.


One wrong move and I'm a footnote in tomorrow's obituaries. But I've played chicken with death before, and I'm damn good at bluffing.

"Think about it," I press on, my words a lifeline I'm throwing out. "You take me down, there'll just be someone else. Someone who won't see reason. Is that what you want?"


His eyes narrow, considering, calculating. The knife falters—a moment's hesitation that might just save my skin.


"Maybe today's not your day," I suggest, voice low and even. "And maybe I keep digging and find something that clears all this up. You let me walk, and I'll remember you did me a solid."


He's silent for a heartbeat, two. The rain's relentless drumming outside becomes a countdown to my potential end. But then, slowly, he steps back, knife disappearing into the darkness of his coat.


"Walk fast, Thorn," he says, voice still a threat. "And watch your back."


I don't need telling twice. I pivot on my heel and stride through the warehouse. But as my gaze flicks across the dim expanse of the warehouse, it catches a sliver of darkness that doesn't belong. There, behind a tattered curtain dancing to the rhythm of some phantom breeze—a door, its edges rough and secret.


"Hey! Where you think you're going, Thorn?"


His voice is a growl, chasing me as I dive. The whistle of steel slices the air where my head used to be. Adrenaline surges; I'm pure instinct now, slamming into the hidden door shoulder-first. It gives with a protest of rusted hinges, and I tumble through into the unknown.


It's a room that reeks of secrets. Dim light filters in through grime-caked windows high above, casting an otherworldly glow over the chaos within. Papers flutter like captive birds. Photographs, their corners curling with age, are thumbtacked to walls that have seen better days. Strings crisscross between pushpins, weaving a web of conspiracy.


Center stage in this macabre tableau, there's a board with a photograph pinned dead center. It's her—the victim—caught in a candid moment, arm in arm with the city's golden boy politician, Councilman Reyes. The intimacy of their posture isn't just for show. This is personal, private. A connection not meant for the public eye. Her connection to him is no longer just a hunch. It's here, tangible, laid bare for those willing to connect the dots.


"Well, would you look at that..." I mutter. "Reyes, what were you mixed up in?"


"Finding something interesting?" Lily's question hangs like a wisp of smoke in the stale air.


"This could blow the lid right off the case," I reply, not taking my eyes off the evidence.


"Too bad you ain't leaving here alive."


The voice cuts through my focus. Time's up. I pocket what I can and dart back toward the door, the weight of discovery heavy in my coat.


"Running won't save ya, detective!" The mobster's shout is almost drowned by the sound of my own ragged breaths as I weave between crates and debris, a desperate man seeking salvation in the dark.


I stumble over a loose plank, catch myself before I face-plant into oblivion. No time to curse my luck—I'm a moving target, and targets get hit.


"Give it up, Vic! You're in way over your head!"


"Like hell," I grunt, more to steel my resolve than in any hope of being heard. Every turn, every sprint brings me closer to freedom or a bullet—it's a coin toss which will claim me first.


The exit looms ahead, a sliver of night peeking through a crack in the boarded-up doorway. It's now or never. I lunge, shoulder crashing through the rotting wood. Night air hits me like a splash of cold water, a brief respite before I hit the ground running, the truth burning a hole in my pocket.