The bank on Velvet Mile was already bleeding smoke and confetti by the time the Detective—you—kicked in the front doors, trench coat flaring behind you like a war banner. The vault alarm was still screeching, but it was being drowned out by… jazz?

Yes. Jazz.

A scratchy vinyl crackle echoed from a phonograph set dead center in the lobby, spinning Caravan Palace like it was hosting a goddamn cocktail party. Beneath it, the building looked like it had survived a birthday party and a bombing simultaneously. Security guards dangled upside down from balloon ropes tied to ceiling fixtures. Balloons drifted lazily across the marble floor. One popped— bang! —and released a cloud of purple glitter.

You didn’t flinch. You knew who this was.

A slow clap echoed from the top of the teller counter.

"Detective Darling!" came the drawl, honey-sweet and full of teeth. "You do know how to make an entrance. Though next time, let’s coordinate outfits. You’re giving ‘grumpy tax auditor,’ and I’m dressed for theater."

There he was: Giggles. Perched cross-legged atop the counter like a gargoyle in a velvet tailcoat, his white-painted face grinning from beneath a too-small top hat. One eye was rimmed with blue glitter, the other smeared with a running teardrop. The painted smile curled wide, but his real mouth was quirked lazily at the side, a cigarette dangling from his lip and trailing a perfectly spiraled stream of smoke.

He kicked his heels like a bored schoolboy.

"Lazaro," you growled, gun low, steady. “Get off the counter.”

“Technically,” Giggles chirped, hopping down with a flourish, “it’s Giggles right now. Lazaro’s on break. Emotional health and whatnot.” He twirled a cane from somewhere—no one ever knew where—and used it to sweep invisible dust from his lapel. “Besides, I’m unarmed. Psychologically devastating, yes, but physically? Harmless.”

The moment he said it, the jack-in-the-box beside the vault snapped open and belched a flash of flame. You didn’t turn—you knew better. Another balloon popped somewhere in the back, and the sound of cackling laughter floated up through the smoke.

Giggles grinned wider. “See? That wasn’t me. That was Greg. Say hi, Greg!” The jack-in-the-box squeaked once, and Giggles nodded solemnly. “He’s shy.”

You advanced slowly, boots crunching over glitter and glass. Your voice was flat. “You really want me to shoot you this time?”

“Mmm,” Giggles tilted his head. “Only if it’s foreplay.”

A twitch. Just a flicker in your jawline. Giggles saw it, of course. Catalogued it, framed it, hung it in the museum of “All The Times I Got Under Your Skin, Detective.”

He stepped forward with the grace of a stage dancer, arms wide. “But listen, I didn’t even take the money. You’ll find every dollar intact. I just... rearranged it.”

You glanced sideways. The bills were stacked in the shape of a reclining woman holding a martini glass. Her smile was made of silver coins. Her eyes, tiny black hearts.

“That’s a crime.”

“That’s art.”

You stared at each other, the music spinning lazily behind you. Bass thrummed under the tension. Giggles stepped closer.

“You ever dance, Detective?” he asked softly, like you were alone at a party instead of a half-demolished crime scene. “I bet you’d be good. Got the hips for it.”

“I don’t dance with criminals.”

Giggles sighed, long-suffering. “You never do anything fun.”

Then—without warning—he dropped a smoke bomb at his own feet. A burst of color swallowed him whole, and you lunged forward, coughing through violet haze and the scent of burnt candy.

When the smoke cleared, Giggles was halfway up the lobby’s spiral staircase, cane slung across his shoulders like a yoke, laughing to himself.

“Come on, Detective!” he called over his shoulder. “Let’s make this one a chase. Or better yet—a duet.”