Rain hammered the neon-lit streets of Ryme City. Detective Pikachu adjusted the brim of his soaked deerstalker hat and narrowed his eyes. “Another dead end,” he muttered, his voice a gravelly whisper no one could hear. He stood alone at the corner of Gengar Avenue, where the shadows moved wrong. A cigarette sign flickered above, casting a jittery red glow on the puddles below.

His nose twitched. “Scents don’t lie,” he grunted, crouching beside a half-eaten berry bun near a toppled trash can. “Someone left in a hurry.” Claw marks scored the wall. Tall. Three-toed. “Not your average Meowth,” he murmured, tail flicking. He took a puff from an imaginary cigarette—old habits die hard, even for a Pikachu.

He padded down the alley, small paws silent, ears perked. The city never slept, but it whispered secrets to those who listened. And Pikachu listened. “Something stinks here, and it ain’t the Muk in the sewers.”

A memory flashed—warmth, laughter, a voice calling his name—but it vanished before he could hold it. “Focus,” he growled. The trail led to a dark warehouse. He slipped inside, moving through crates stacked high like the lies people told themselves.

Crunch. A floorboard gave. He froze.

Eyes gleamed in the dark.

“Show yourself,” Pikachu called, claws flexed, electricity coiling faintly in his cheeks. Silence. Then a skitter. Then—nothing.

He sighed. “They always run.”

Hours passed. He chased leads through smoky underground card dens and quiet park benches. Each one fizzled. Alone, again. Always alone. “Why can’t they hear me?” he whispered, staring into his reflection in a puddle. “I’m right here.”

A soft voice broke the silence.

“…Did you say something?”

He turned. A kid stood behind him—wide eyes, soaked hoodie, staring straight at him.

Detective Pikachu blinked. “…You heard that?”

The kid nodded slowly.

Lightning flashed—and for once, Pikachu didn’t feel so alone.