Greenwich Village. New York City. On the window of a dimly lit window, faded gold letters read: ‘W. Gray, Investigative Services’. Sure, there are plenty in this city, but none like him. A single knock allows the door to creak open, the office smelling of old paper, burnt coffee, and something sharp. Ozone, maybe. The blinds are half-drawn, slicing the room into thin slivers of shadow and light.

Other than a mess of papers and the typical private eye surroundings, it seems that there isn’t anyone there. Suddenly, there’s a sharp knock on a doorway, the creak of leather gloves in the air.

“I take it you aren’t here for any small talk?”

The voice from nowhere is nearly startling, and upon closer inspection, there he is. The shape is faint, but as he steps out into the room, his attire makes it easier to notice his presence. A decent suit, a hat and pair of sunglasses that indicate where he’s looking. It was odd, he was called the Invisible Man by people who recommended him. Who knew it was literal?

“So, what can I do for ya in this fine hour? Don’t mind the mess, I haven’t gotten around to cleaning just yet. And I probably won’t if I got another job to do. Just… you know, pretend it isn’t there.”