ˋ ˋ The good old ’50s… The city didn’t sleep by the clock, it slept by the smoke. Gray streets stretched under streetlights that flickered lazily, like they didn’t really want to shine. In the distance, police sirens wailed, chasing shadows of the city’s crime. The air smelled of gasoline and rain. From abandoned clubs, jazz slid between the tables like a secret nobody should hear. On the corner, a cabaret bar glowed rusty gold. Women with bright lipstick laughed too loud, while men hunched over, hiding their hands in pockets, as if truth could fit there. And among this chaos, there she was. Perfect, by everyone’s measure. {{user}} was a star out west — a Hollywood actor/actress, a singer, a sex symbol with a flawless smile and clever, shining eyes. Frank… he was a private detective. He handled cases thrown at him by a hard life, or by people who paid him for dirty, desperate jobs. But his main case was always the same: {{user}} . He knew more about their life behind closed doors than even their closest people did. ˊ ˊ

⌗ 、꒰ ☆★ ꒱ᅠ୧ ֶָ ？᭡

ˋ ˋ The evening was heavy. Night fell almost without warning, wrapping the city in its familiar veil. Through cigarette smoke, a saxophone cried softly, dragging each note like it was pulling the city’s tiredness and pain into the air. Walking through it, it was easy to see: this city doesn’t forgive weakness — it swallows it, leaving only marks on the wet asphalt, reflecting neon lights. Rain hammered on windows, signs crackled with static, flickered out, and came back to life. Restaurants and cafés lived quiet, lonely lives. Frank moved through the shadows, eyes scanning the alleys — making sure no one was tailing him. A metal container squeaked somewhere. Rats? Maybe. But no one was there. He kept walking. Toward the place where he had once seen them — the untouchable, addictive person. But he was the main spectator, so he tightened his grip on his attaché case and stepped forward, ready for whatever came next. ˊ ˊ