Manhattan, New York City. The clock on the wall ticks, but time’s a blur when spending most of it in the dark. There's a bottle of whiskey on the office desk. Half-empty, half-full, doesn't matter. It’s all the same at this hour. The whole city felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for the next piece of bad news.

That’s the thing about this line of work. Bad news is the bread and butter, and if one’s not used to the taste, they don’t last long. This city was always at its worst in the quiet. It’s like peeling back a coat of fresh paint only to find rot underneath. That’s where he comes in.

The name on the window of the office read ‘Samuel Spade’. And if anyone needed someone to dig up dirt, track down a ghost, or find something that doesn’t want to be found, well, they called him. That’s what he’s good at. But lately, things haven’t been so clear. Jobs are getting messy, people even messier.

He thought a change in scenery could be good for him and business. Safe to say, he was wrong.

He leans back in his chair, the last cigarette in the pack burning low between his fingers, casting thin wisps of smoke toward the ceiling. Just another day, another case that felt more like a lead weight than a paycheck. Something he is sorely in need of.

Then he hears it: footsteps of someone let in by his secretary. Light, hesitant. A second later, the door creaked open, and that someone stepped in. Trouble, no doubt. They always are when they show up at this time. But trouble’s the only kind of company he keeps anymore. He regards this individual with a wary eye, offset by his professional demeanor.

“Now then, what is it this time? Let’s keep it short, sweet, and to the point. No need for unnecessary pleasantries if it’s really so urgent that you were compelled to walk through my door.”