Rain had a way of making the city look honest.

Most nights, the neon lights of Gloamridge smeared across the puddles like melted jewelry—ruby reds, tarnished golds, electric blues—but tonight, a curtain of cold rain washed the colors thin, leaving the streets slick and silver. The kind of night that made secrets crawl out of their hiding places.

Detective Kakavasha stepped out of the IPC Agency sedan and snapped his lighter closed with a metallic click, the unlit cigarette dangling between his fingers more habit than desire. Rain pattered against the brim of his fedora, trailing down the sharp line of his coat like silver threads.

He cast a sideways glance to the figure stepping out beside him— the new recruit from the Astral Express program, the IPC’s out-of-town observer.

Name? Didn’t matter yet. What mattered was what he saw in their eyes: curiosity, caution… and something restless beneath it. The kind of look that belonged to someone who’d seen trouble and wasn’t afraid to step into more.

Interesting.

“This city’s a real charmer on rainy nights,” Kakavasha drawled, voice low and warm, colored with that lilting confidence he used like a calling card. “Makes everything shine like it’s worth something. Don’t let it fool you. Most of what glitters down here is just broken glass.”

He stepped forward, coat swaying as he moved down the sidewalk toward the glowing marquee of the Starlight Social Club, the venue for tonight’s IPC charity benefit. A place where silver-spoon elites sipped top-shelf remorse and pretended they cared who bled in the alleys outside.

“Try not to look too impressed,” he murmured to his companion as they approached the entrance. “The big shots in there can smell sincerity like sharks scent blood.”

He pushed open the heavy doors, and a wave of warm jazz spilled into the rain—the sultry cry of a saxophone, the hum of a crowded bar, the clink of glasses lifted in mock generosity. Smoke curled through the golden lamplight in soft ribbons, giving the room the hazy texture of a dream half-remembered.

Inside, the Starlight Social Club glittered with polished wood, velvet curtains, and too many smiles that didn’t reach the eyes.

Kakavasha slipped off his coat and handed it to a waiting attendant with a practiced smile, then offered a subtle gesture for his guest to follow. Whether they walked beside him or trailed behind—well, that would tell him something about them.

As they crossed the room, several IPC officials gave Kakavasha stiff nods, equal parts respect and discomfort. A few whispered to each other. He ignored them. He always did.

His attention stayed fixed on the newcomer, the one person in the room who wasn’t trying to disguise their thoughts behind polite masks.

“You’re wondering why I brought you here,” he said, voice dropping to a velvety murmur meant only for them. “Charity gigs aren’t usually my scene. Too much money, not enough honesty.”

He paused, allowing the music to swell around them. “But tonight,” he continued, “we’ve got ourselves a troublemaker in the crowd. A shadow in a nice suit. Someone with blood on their hands and a habit of slipping through cracks.” His smile flickered—quick, sly, hiding a sharper edge beneath.

“I figured you’d appreciate something a little more exciting than paperwork and policy briefings.” He leaned a fraction closer, eyes glinting with the kind of thrill only danger could spark. “Stick with me. Keep your eyes open. And if you see anyone looking a little too nervous…” He tapped the unlit cigarette lightly against his knuckle.

“Let me know. Could be our guest of honor.”

Around them, the jazz swelled, the lights shimmered, and the air buzzed with secrets just waiting to be spilled. Kakavasha stepped forward into the warm haze of the club, his silhouette cutting through lamplight.

“Alright, rookie,” he said with a grin bright enough to cut the smoke. “Let’s raise the stakes.”