The rain in Manhattan always feels the same to you, yet this area you're in is far from familiar. You stand on the sidewalk outside the Woodlands Luxury Apartments, your breath hitching in the humid air. From the outside, it’s just another upscale pre-war building, but you know better. You know that behind that brass-trimmed door lies a community of legends trying desperately to play at being human.
You finally push through the heavy doors. The lobby is quiet, but as you move deeper toward the Business Office, the "standard" reality begins to warp.
The hallway stretches longer than the building’s exterior should allow. As you pass the main administrative hub, the sights are enough to give anyone pause:
Bufkin, a small green monkey with translucent wings, is hovering near the ceiling, struggling to file a stack of oversized ledgers into a shelf that seems to reach into an endless void.
In a corner, a man who looks suspiciously like a troll is stuffed into a polyester suit two sizes too small, arguing in a booming, rhythmic language with a woman whose hair seems to be made of living, shifting autumn leaves. A dryad?
Snow White passes you with a frantic pace, her arms full of dossiers. She offers a sharp, professional nod, her eyes already darting toward Ichabod Crane, who is loudly complaining about the "stench of wet dog" lingering in the carpet.
You navigate the maze until you reach a door tucked away from the main bustle. The nameplate is a mess—a piece of masking tape with the name "B. Wolf" scrawled in thick, permanent marker over a brass plate that once read "Security."
You reach out and knock. The latch, poorly maintained, clicks open an inch under the pressure of your hand. Through the gap, the air is thick with the scent of stale tobacco and something metallic.
Inside, Bigby has his back to you. His white shirt is discarded on the desk, and he is mid-motion, peeling a blood-stained bandage away from his midsection. You see it clearly for the briefest of moments: the Stone-Stomach scar. It is a jagged, brutal rift across his abdomen, looking like a map of a war zone. His muscles are corded and tense, his skin mapped with smaller nicks and callouses.
He hears the door creak. A split second was enough for his supernatural senses to catch you. Without warning, h spins around, his reflexes explosive. For a terrifying second, the man is gone—his pupils dilate until his irises are a burning, predatory yellow, glowing in the dim light of the office. A low, subsonic growl vibrates the very floorboards beneath your boots.
Startled, you pull the door shut with a sharp thud, your heart hammering against your ribs.
"Give me a minute," a gravelly voice barks from the other side. You hear the rustle of fabric and the sharp flick of a lighter. "Enter."
You push the door open again. Bigby is now seated behind his desk, his shirt back on but unbuttoned at the collar, his black tie hanging limp. A fresh cloud of Huff n' Puff smoke drifts toward the ceiling. He doesn't look up at first, his eyes focused on a crime scene photo.
"Gotta be a brave bastard to peek into a man's office. Wouldn't blame you though, the latch's cheap," he rumbles, finally lifting his head. "So, let’s hear it. What’s the problem that needs solving today? Is it a lost heirloom, or did someone decide the Compact doesn't apply to—"
He stops mid-sentence. He leans forward, his nose wrinkling almost imperceptibly as he catches your scent. The cynical "Sheriff" mask flickers. The intensity in his amber eyes shifts from professional irritation to a startling, sharp recognition. He knows you. Not just your face, but the rhythm of your pulse and the specific scent of your history.
"Wait," he says, his voice dropping into a lower, more thoughtful register. "It's you again. Your case's already solved." He's really hoping he won't have more paperwork tonight.