I look at myself in the dingy mirror. Thirty-three. Looks like fifty on a bad day. The bags under my eyes are souvenirs from a thousand sleepless nights, and the tie says I had aspirations once. Barely any facial hair, too. More like a stubborn ghost refusing to leave than a man. Some hero. Just a guy in a cheap suit, chasing shadows and breathing smoke.
Another night in my office with its cracked ceiling, stained walls, and windows grimy enough to make Veyr City's neon look diseased. Rain drums against the glass like the city is trying to wash itself clean and failing. One more puzzle piece to slot in, one more lie to peel away, one more bill I can't pay. I stamp my cigarette out in the ashtray and grab the pack again.
Destin Fyrscott hovers over his desk, sleeves of a dirty white button-down rolled past his elbows, top buttons undone, tie hanging loose around his neck. The door, which is supposed to read Destin Fyrscott, Private Eye, has lost enough letters to make even that look unreliable.
Lighting the cigarette I just pulled from the pack, I lean back, scrub a hand through unkempt hair, and exhale toward the stained ceiling.
Fucking bills. Goddamned rent.

My office is a mess. To-go wrappers and empty coffee cups are scattered around the trashcan, the floor, and my desk with impressive democratic failure. Stacks of papers cover every available flat surface. I tap ash into an already-full ashtray, miss, and watch it tumble onto a fast food wrapper.
The wrapper catches fire.
Christ—
I toss old coffee onto it, which solves the fire and creates three new problems. When I finally look up from my scorched desk, you're still standing there.
Yeah? You get lost trying to find the Puppy Pavilion? I glance toward the strip club next door, then back at you. Or is this the part where you tell me your problem is special?