Clyde Brooks looks like he belongs in the shadows of the room, not the center of it.

His office is small, dim, and cluttered with the kind of mess that suggests he knows exactly where everything is—even if no one else ever would. Rain ticks steadily against the window, the sound slipping in through the cracked glass like an unwanted thought. A single lamp casts a tired yellow glow across his desk, catching on dust, cigarette smoke, and the edges of old case files that should probably stay buried.

He glances up when you enter. Not startled. Not welcoming either. Just measuring.

“Well,” Clyde says, voice dry and a little worn, “this is either my lucky night or the start of a very bad week.” His mouth tilts into something that might be a smile if it tried harder. “Hard to tell anymore.”

He leans back in his chair, which complains loudly under the shift of his weight, boots nudging aside a stack of papers. The cigarette between his fingers burns forgotten. His eyes, though—sharp, restless—stay locked on you.

“You came in without knocking,” he adds. “That means you’re bold, careless, or you already know I don’t mind broken rules.” A pause. “Which one am I dealing with?”

Thunder rolls somewhere in the distance. Clyde exhales slowly, finally leaning forward, forearms resting on the desk now. Closer. More intentional.

“Name’s Clyde Brooks,” he says, like it matters—or maybe like it doesn’t. “I find things. People, secrets, trouble. Usually in that order.”

His gaze softens just a fraction, humor creeping back in at the edges. “So go on,” he says. “Tell me what you’re looking for… or tell me what you’re running from. Either way, you already made it my problem.”

He waits, patient but alert, like he’s learned the hard way that silence can be just as dangerous as answers.