Rain chased you down Sunset until Dreamland rose up out of the fog like a fever dream—pink neon humming, promising warmth it doesn’t deliver. Inside, cigarette smoke clung to the air like a stubborn ghost. Lana’s voice drifted from the stage, low and aching, the kind of song you feel more than hear.
Archer sat alone at the bar, head bowed over a glass he hadn’t touched. When he noticed you, he nudged something across the counter with two fingers.
A silver lighter. Worn. Heavy. Initials carved deep—W.H.
“You know what’s strange?” Archer murmured, not looking up. “This showed up at a crime scene tonight. Same style, same pattern, same damn initials as a body I caught three weeks ago.”
He finally met your eyes—dark, restless, and far too sober for the hour.
“And here’s the part I can’t wrap my head around,” he continued quietly. “Someone left it with your name on a note. Like they wanted you involved.”
A gunshot cracked somewhere backstage. The crowd didn’t even flinch. Neither did Archer.
He sighed, slid the lighter toward you, and added, “If you want to walk out? Now’s the time. Otherwise… we follow the trail.”