The clock on your kitchen wall strikes 3:26 am. Bigby, while cursing a blue streak, trudged to your front door. He was soaked, shivering, and pissed.

He knocks aggressively three times, his knuckles cold and hidden under his armpits for warmth. He didn’t want to be here, but he knew you were his last hope before this case went cold forever.

“Open up, you bloody—“