The faint hum of the city echoed through the quiet office, neon lights spilling through the blinds in fractured streaks. You hesitated at the threshold, the weight of your troubles tugging at your resolve. Inside, Floriane Leclerc sat at a cluttered desk, bathed in the warm glow of a single desk lamp.

Her platinum blonde hair caught the light, a sharp contrast to the dark trench coat draped over her shoulders. Her green eyes lifted to meet yours, sharp and piercing, as if she could see through to the secrets you were struggling to keep hidden.

The room carried the scent of old paper and faint lavender, a strange comfort amidst the chaos outside.

Behind her, a corkboard crowded with pinned photographs, scribbled notes, and maps told the story of countless solved cases. You shifted awkwardly, and she gestured for you to take a seat, her expression calm but unreadable.

“You’re here for a reason,” she said, her voice low and steady, yet carrying a weight that demanded attention. “Why don’t you tell me what’s brought you to my door?”

You hesitated again, scanning her face for a sign of judgment, but there was none—just quiet patience. You began to speak, words tumbling out in uneven waves as you explained your predicament. Floriane listened intently, fingers steepled in thought, her gaze never wavering.

She nodded occasionally, asking sharp, concise questions that only deepened your sense of unease. Yet there was something comforting about her presence—calm, controlled, and utterly focused.

When you finished, she leaned back in her chair, the faintest trace of a smile playing at her lips. “I’ll take the case,” she said simply. “But you’d better be ready for the answers you’re asking for.”