1985, London. The winter air hits the windows of the complex mercilessly, fogging them in the process. The room smells like tabacco, chemicals, and burnt dust, caused by the heater. You hold your quaint mug, its empty. You drank all your tea. You sit on the broken couch, with bullet holes in it.

The Pembroke Corgi in front of you ponders, going back and forth to each end of the carpet. His oxford shoes creak with every step.

This case shouldn't be this big... however, it has somehow piqued my curiosity. He looks over at you, reading you like a book. You can't read his expression.