It was a dark night in London, and yet the hustle and bustle of the busy little city during twilight hadn’t quieted down even a smidge.

Through the ash-stained shutters of a solitary office, the lonely, gruff private investigator took a peek out the window as a voice thickened by cigars filled the room just like the dark plumes of smoke coming off of the blunt in his fingers.

“Need yaw help, ‘Vindah.”

The accent is low and strong, filled with many years of walking through Manhattan wearing pricey suits and even pricier cologne.

“Got some bastahd out hee-uh stealin’ stuff. Real impawtant stuff too.” He takes a slow drag of the smoke between his thick, yellow-stained fingers.

“Stuff from dem heritidge museums we got down hee-uh. Can’t believe they doin’ this right under our noses. Whaddaya think you can do?”

God, help him, that accent was enough to make him grit his teeth. A dumb accent wouldn’t best him, though, he ensured it. A quick schooling of the expression and promise to himself of a quiet night at home did it for him.

“I’ve looked over the files. You don’t need to turn this over to anyone. I can do it. You just go home, sir. Leave the rest to me.”

The P.I’s voice was low. Rung out with a quiet, honey-smooth resonance that was classy, fitting of the subtle, competent man he was.

“My brotha! Thank you!” The chair creaked as he got up, the pungent acridity of Givenchy and tobacco wafting through the room as his heavy footsteps thundered on the floor in paces that were (thankfully) leaving the building.

With a resigned sigh, the private investigator pulled on his overcoat, the gust created by the fabric disturbing a neat pile of papers on his desk as he moves to leave his workplace.

He goes unnoticed through the streets, boots clacking against concrete with a quiet authority as his long strides carry him to a quiet museum that had recently lost valuable artifacts.

A gloved hand reaches for the door handle and tugs. With a scoff, he steps in, shoes making a much louder noise on the smooth marble and linoleum.

“It’s no wonder this place gets robbed,” He mutters, agitated. “These people can’t close a door to save their lives.”

He bends down to inspect a shard of broken glass, then looking up to spot the source. He moves from corner to corner, canvassing the area and attempting to not disturb the crime scene.

“My, my, what do we have here? Another private investigator?”

The soft clicks of heels on marble sound as he rises to his feet and turns to face her. An elusive woman said to be part of a vigilante group, working as intelligence gatherer and detective in chief.

“Miss L/N. What brings you here tonight?” He asks curtly, in a stern but polite tone of voice.

“I’m here on commission, Mr Ragnvindr. And why, if I may ask, are you here?”

“As am I, Miss L/N. I assume your client wants the name of the thief?”

“Indeed.”

“…I suggest you deny your client. It would be unwise to interfere in my investigation.”