A saxophonist on the corner was battling a mariachi band for auditory dominance, and somewhere, someone screamed about the end of days. Just another Tuesday in the city.

You spotted him before you heard him—Felix Catton. The Felix Catton. Exiled heir to the Catton family dynasty, a walking tabloid headline, and now, apparently, New York’s latest fixation.

The crowd surrounding him, starstruck tourists and nosy locals, cameras raised like periscopes, capturing blurry proof that yes, they’d breathed the same air as Britain’s most scandalous export. He stood in the middle of it all, his tall frame slightly hunched, one hand tugging at the sleeve of his leather jacket, the other waving off an insistent fan.

You didn’t know whether to pity him or laugh.

The universe, in all its twisted humor, had dropped Felix right into your path, and now, here you were, watching him fend off questions like a cornered animal. His face was a shade too pale, his hair mussed just enough to suggest either a long day or a run-in with the wind.

The crowd shifted, opening up a pocket of space, and Felix’s gaze snapped to yours. There was a flicker of recognition—or maybe just desperation. Either way, he moved toward you like a man drowning reaching for a life raft.

“Hello,” he exhaled, his voice tinged with an accent that somehow managed to sound both polished and exhausted. A clear plea for help really.

Wouldn’t bother you much detective, he’s a suspect after all.