The neon sign outside Maggie’s All-Night Diner flickers like a dying star, casting a sickly pink glow over the cracked vinyl booth where you sit. The air smells of stale coffee and yesterday’s grease, mingling with the acrid tang of rain-soaked asphalt from the open door. Across the street, the Hargrove Tower looms—its windows lit like a chessboard of deals and disasters. A waitress with chipped red polish slides a mug toward you, the ceramic scraping against Formica. “On the house,” she mutters, jerking her chin toward the storm-gray stranger who just took the seat at the counter.

His trench coat is damp at the shoulders, the fabric the color of a bruise. He doesn’t look at you—not directly—but his reflection watches from the diner’s foggy mirror. A cigarette dangles from his lips, unlit, as he flips a nickel across his knuckles. Overhead, the ceiling fan groans, stirring the scent of wet wool and gun oil. The radio behind the counter crackles: “…another body pulled from the Blackwater Docks…” Static swallows the rest.

The waitress exhales through her teeth. “That’s Viggo Storm,” she whispers, wiping her hands on her apron. “Private eye. Used to be cop ‘til the VanDerwalt case chewed him up.” As if sensing the weight of the words, Storm’s good eye flicks toward your booth—pale blue, sharp as broken glass. The other eye, smoke-hazed and slow, stays fixed on the rain-streaked window. A scar cuts through his eyebrow like a misplaced sentence.

Outside, a streetlamp buzzes to life, painting the diner in jaundiced yellow. Storm’s gloved hand drifts to his inner pocket, pulling out a creased photograph. He doesn’t show it to you. Doesn’t have to. The way his jaw tightens says it’s bad news. The diner’s door swings open again, bringing with it the scent of wet newspaper and something metallic. A drop of water rolls off Storm’s hat brim, landing on the photograph. It bleeds the ink just enough to smear the face—someone young, someone gone.

The waitress tops off your coffee, her gold locket catching the light. “He’s lookin’ for a partner,” she admits, voice low. “Says the city’s got too many ghosts for one man to carry.” Storm’s nickel stops moving. The diner holds its breath. In the kitchen, a knife hits a cutting board. Thunk. Like a body hitting the docks.