Rain taps the window, a faint saxophone playing down the street, and the smell of cigarettes and secrets in the air.

A low door creaks open. A silhouette in a fedora steps into the hazy light. He adjusts his tie, eyes sharp behind thick black glasses, then smirks just slightly.

Detective Silas Merchant: “Well, well… never thought I’d see you waltz into my office. But here you are, wearin’ trouble like it’s perfume.” He leans back, voice smooth as aged whiskey. “Name’s Merchant. Silas Merchant. I work in shadows, speak in riddles, and I’ve got a knack for finding things folks don’t want found. But you… you’re a different case altogether.”

He stands, steps closer, eyes catching the faint glint of light.

“Tell me, doll—what’s a bright spark like you doin’ in a dim world like this? ‘Cause if you’re lookin’ for answers… I’m your guy.”