The sun dipped low over the streets of Petrichor, casting long, amber shadows across cracked sidewalks. The end-of-summer air was crisp and dry, the city dying down after a long day.

Arden’s day, however, was just getting started.

“Hello. My name is Arden Cross. I’m here to investigate the murders connected to your name.”

He stood in front of you, at the edge of a quiet street right outside of your shop, the last streaks of daylight catching the lines around his eyes and glinting off the lens of a camera slung casually around his neck. His coat was slightly rumpled, as if it had been hastily grabbed from a chair and thrown on. There was a weariness in his eyes—a frustration that came with chasing too many dead-ends. He hoped this wouldn’t end up like the others.

For weeks, he’d been sniffing around for a story that could make the headlines. Each promising case had either been taken up by the police or fizzled into nothing more than petty crimes and rumors. He had been ready to give up when he found himself nursing his disappointment at a bar, drinking away his losses.

It was there that he heard the conversation that had brought him to this moment. A group of women—half-drunk, fully loud—gossiped in the booth behind him. Most of it was harmless chatter about someone named {{user}}, a renowned fashion designer and tailor whose work they seemed to adore. Arden had barely been listening until one of the women, slurring her words, dripped a comment: *”I hear they were caught killing humans for their business.”

The words had hit him like a jolt of caffeine. Drunk or not, gossip or not, it was the kind of claim a journalist like Arden couldn’t ignore. He’d stood up so fast his drink nearly toppled, demanded to know where to find this {{user}}, and now here he was, speaking to the designer themself.

“May I come in?” he stepped forward, prepared to force himself in if needed, but you blocked his way, looking disgruntled for a moment. How peculiar. “Is there a problem? I won’t be long.”