Another rainy night in Intervale, yet the relentless downpour never seems to wash the blood and grime from the streets. It's a fool's hope. This city, my city, bleeds shadows and secrets. Tonight, the neon glow of a sign half-hidden by an overhang beckons me—a red rose wilting in the perpetual night—The Midnight Rose. A fitting name for a place that thrives on the hidden and the forbidden.


I shove my hands deeper into the pockets of my trench coat, feeling the reassuring cold of the revolver nested within. Can’t be too careful in this dive. My breath mingles with the mist as I stride forward, eyes alert, senses razor-sharp. Each step echoes, a lonely cadence amidst the symphony of raindrops and distant sirens. I'm intrigued, sure, but wary—wary like a tomcat that's crossed one too many busy streets.


The door to The Midnight Rose creaks on its hinges, a familiar tune to the ears of those who haunt the night's underbelly. I step inside, the thick cloud of smoke embracing me like an old lover, indifferent and suffocating all at once. The joint's dim bulbs cast shadows that flicker and dance across the walls, each one a specter with secrets of its own.


The clientele here is a mixed bag—a mélange of lost souls and high rollers, each playing their part in this nocturnal masquerade. But I'm not here for the whiskey or the cheap thrills. I'm hunting for a siren amidst these rough seas, Eleanor Hargrave, the dame who could swing the pendulum of power with just a whisper.


I let my steely gaze wander, slicing through the veil of cigarette haze as it searches for her telltale silhouette. No sign yet. Seems the enchantress isn't eager to be found tonight. But then again, the best prey is the kind that makes you work for the kill.


Nestled in the corner, a congress of oddities holds court—a cluster of magical beings, murmurs of incantations blending with the clinking of glasses. Their kind always knows more than they let on, and I've got a knack for loosening lips that are sealed tighter than a miser's purse.


"Evening, gents," I drawl, sidling up to their table with a casual lean against the worn wood. "Mind if I bend your ear about the state of affairs between our kind and yours?"


Their eyes size me up, wary but curious, like cats that have spotted a new mouse in their alley. One of them, a grizzled old satyr with horns that'd seen better days, gives me a nod that's as good as a welcome mat.


"Thorn, ain't it?" he rasps, his voice gravel mixed with bourbon, "We've heard whispers. You tread the line between worlds, don't ya?"


"Guilty as charged," I confess, tipping an imaginary hat. "And word on the street is that Eleanor Hargrave's been stirring the pot. Politics isn't exactly my brand of whiskey, but when murder is on the menu, I take notice."


A pixie with eyes like shattered emeralds chimes in, her tone laced with mischief. "Eleanor's ambitions are... expansive. Human, magical—it's all the same chessboard to her."


"Chessboard, huh?" I muse, the edges of my mouth curling into a smirk. "Guess that makes us pawns. But even a pawn can corner a queen if it's clever enough."


"Or foolish enough," counters a dryad, her bark-like skin crinkling around a knowing smile.


"Depends on who you ask," I shoot back, my words edged with the razor-sharp wit I keep honed for occasions like these.


Our banter weaves through the smoky air, a dance of words and innuendo. They're cagey, sure, but there's truth hidden in their jests and jibes. Eleanor's fingers are dipped in every pie—human, magical, and the shadowy crevices in between.


"Watch yourself, Thorn," the satyr warns as I prepare to leave their circle, the information I've gleaned weighing heavy in my pocket like a loaded gun. "Eleanor Hargrave is no ordinary spellcaster. She'll weave a web you can't cut through."


"Thanks for the tip," I reply, my tone light but my mind racing. "But sometimes, you gotta get tangled to see the pattern."


Leaving them, I slink through the shadows of the club, letting the haze of cigarette smoke veil my presence. The murmur of hushed conversations acts as a backdrop to my hunt, every sense strung tight as a piano wire. My eyes, accustomed to the dim light, catch a stir near the bar counter: a flock of humans swarming around a figure with an aura that pulls at the room like a magnet.

There she is—Eleanor Hargrave.


Her back's to me, but there's no mistaking that curved silhouette or the midnight waterfall of her hair. It cascades down her back, a dark promise against the pale skin left bare by her dress. She turns slightly, and I glimpse the profile of her face, alight with a smile that doesn't quite reach those sharp, calculating eyes.


"Can you believe it?" The voice comes from a man just within earshot, his gaze locked onto Eleanor like she's the north star in his drunken sky. "She speaks with the wisdom of the ancients."


"More like the cunning of a serpent," I mutter under my breath, taking another step closer, careful not to make waves in the sea of bodies.


I lean against a nearby wall, feigning casual interest in the bottom of my glass while my ears strain for fragments of their conversation. A laugh here, a sigh there—each sound is a thread in the tapestry Eleanor weaves without effort. They're eating out of her hand, ignorant of the poison she might be serving up along with her charm.


"Did you hear about the murder up at the high council?" one besotted fool asks, his words slurred but heavy with gossip.

"Shh!" his friend hisses, throwing nervous glances around. "You want the whole bar to know?"


"Relax," Eleanor coos, her voice a melody that dances through the smog. "It's only natural to seek answers in troubling times. And yes, I've heard... such a tragedy."


The way she says 'tragedy' doesn't sit right with me. There's a hidden edge to it, like a knife wrapped in velvet. I watch her closer now, noting the subtle tilt of her head, the slight arch of an eyebrow as she listens to the human chatter. Every movement is measured, meticulous; she knows the game, plays it better than anyone.


"Any idea who could have done it?" another asks, leaning into her space, desperation seeping through his pores.


"I prefer facts to speculation," Eleanor replies, her lips curving into a secretive smile. "Still, one can't help but wonder what darkness lies beneath the surface of our little community."


Darkness isn't the half of it, and that smile of hers? It's got more layers than the city morgue. As she turns, brushing her hair back with a gesture practiced in its allure, I see it—the gleam in her eye. It's not just knowledge she's hiding; it's hunger. Hunger for power, control, whatever game she's playing with people's lives. And I'm standing smack dab in the center, trying to puzzle out whether she's the lightning or the one holding the rod.


I close the distance between us, the sound of my footsteps lost in the din of clinking glasses and low murmurs. "Evening, Hargrave," I drawl, watching a flicker of recognition spark in her eyes before she turns.


"Mr. Thorn," she purrs, the sound coining around me like a snake. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"


"Curiosity," I say, letting my gaze skim her features, searching for cracks in the facade. "And a penchant for trouble."


"Two traits we share, it seems," she counters, a smile playing on her lips. Her voice is a melody that could turn a saint into a sinner.

"Heard any good murder stories lately?"


"Only the ones with charming detectives who bite off more than they can chew." Her eyes hold mine, unblinking, daring. "Some stories have a way of biting back."


"Is that a warning or an invitation?" I ask, my voice low.


Her gaze narrows slightly. "That depends on whether you're smart enough to know the difference."


"Never had much use for smarts," I admit. "Gut instinct's always been more my style."


"Ah, yes, your famous instincts," she muses, and something in her tone sets off alarms in my head. "They haven't failed you yet—or have they?"


The hint of knowledge sends a shiver down my spine that's got nothing to do with the chill in the air. She knows something about me, something I can't place.


"Care to elaborate?" I probe, my voice steady despite the undercurrent of tension.


"Perhaps another time," she replies, her eyes glinting with secrets. "When the stakes are higher. Danger has a way of keeping life... interesting."


"Interesting's one word for it," I reply, thinking that 'deadly' might be another.


She studies me for a heartbeat longer, that enigmatic smile of hers never wavering.


"You've got that look again, Detective. The one that says you're three steps from tumbling down a rabbit hole."


The Midnight Rose seethes around us, the tension ratcheting up as a fae with luminescent eyes bares his teeth in a sneer at the bartender, a human who's seen too much and poured even more. Across the room, a gnome argues with a group of toughs about the price of pixie dust on the black market. Words aren't just words here—they're kindling.


"Maybe I'm just allergic to fairy dust and bad company," I reply.


"Or perhaps you're in need of a clue," she suggests, her voice a melody played in the dark. She leans closer, her scent weaving through the smog—a mix of jasmine and a hint of danger. "The man you're hunting for, he has a taste for rare artifacts. One might even be the cause of this entire misfortune."


"An artifact?" I probe, trying to sift truth from the honeyed half-truths she feeds me. "You saying this is some cursed antique roadshow gone wrong?"


"Something like that," she teases, but before I can press further, the bar erupts.


It starts with a roar, a bellowing shout that cuts through the clinking glasses and muffled conversations. I swivel, just in time to see a minotaur launch a human across the room. The poor sap crashes into a table, sending cards and chips flying.


"Dammit," I curse under my breath, feeling the tug of duty against the pull of Eleanor's words.


"Looks like your cue, Detective," Eleanor says, her gaze locked on the growing melee.


"Stay put," I bark, more out of habit than any real command. I push through the fray, ducking a flying bottle and sidestepping a hex that turns the air where my head was into a block of ice. My hand's on my piece, ready for anything, except maybe losing sight of the only lead I've got.


But by the time I pivot back to where Eleanor stood, she's gone—vanished into the veil of smoke and shadow that The Midnight Rose wears like a shroud. Swearing, I scan the crowd, catching only glimpses of her—a dark silhouette here, the swish of a dress there—always just out of reach.


"Son of a—" My words get swallowed by the brawl's crescendo, the violence a living thing now, hungry and without reason.

Elbows out, I shoulder my way through the heaving mass of bodies, each step a battle against the tide of chaos.


"Outta my way," I growl, shoving a pair of brawling pixies aside. Their curses are lost in the cacophony, just more noise in the bedlam.

As I reach the exit, the throng thins, and the music and melee fade into a dull roar behind me. I burst through, lungs aching for fresh air, and there—just at the edge of the streetlamp's halo—I spot her. Eleanor. She glances back, our eyes locking for a fleeting second, and there's something there. A challenge? A tease? I can't tell before she turns, her silhouette melting into the night.


"Damn you, Eleanor," I whisper into the void she's left behind. It's like trying to grasp smoke itself.


It's just me and the city now, and the silence that follows feels like the calm after a storm that's bound to circle back around. Somewhere out there, Eleanor holds the keys to a puzzle that's got its claws deep in my brain.


With a weary sigh, I turn to make my way home. The only certainty I'm left with is the resolve to find Eleanor Hargrave, and with her, the truth.


But for tonight, she's a ghost, and I'm just a man chasing shadows.