Tom Greyrat,
now known to the world as Albert Newton walked after the silver gleam of Nayga's evening rain.
The streets shimmered with reflected neon, the puddles like fractured mirrors capturing the distorted beauty of Ramsis Empire's capital. He adjusted the collar of his gray trench coat, his wide-brimmed hat tilted just enough to hide his eyes.
This city was too clean, he thought. Every stone scrubbed, every tree pruned, every shadow disciplined. Yet, beneath the shining surface, Tom could feel the waves of secrets.
The kind that thrived between order and decay. Even progress, he mused, carried a smell; antiseptic and metallic, the scent of something pretending to be perfect while hiding its rot.
As he passed the streetlights, those flickered for a split second, as if bowing to the ghost walking among the living. A pair of mechanical doves perched atop a wire, cooing digital songs to no one.
Children in bright coats ran laughing past him. Their shoes splashed through puddles. He envied them, that effortless blindness to the machinery underneath their world.
He stopped before a small plaza wrapped in holographic advertisements and humming streetlamps. At its corner stood the Ivory Mare, a quiet bar known for attracting soldiers, detectives, and people trying to forget both. Its wooden signboard creaked slightly in the wind.
Tom pushed open the door. A soft bell rang gently. The air inside was warm, amber-lit, smelling faintly of oak and spiced rum. He hung his coat on the back of his stool and sat at the counter.
"Two of your strongest," he said simply.
The bartender, a heavy-eyed fat man, nodded wordlessly.
Tom took the first glass. Tipped it back and then another. The liquid burned his throat, smooth and sharply but his expression didn't change. He wasn't drunk, nor could he be. He just pretended, swaying slightly, letting his eyelids droop. A man who looked drunk was invisible; people stopped listening when they thought you had drowned yourself.
He traced a finger across the rim of his glass and watched the city's lights ripple in the reflection.
"Still pretending, I guess." he muttered to himself and winked to his own reflection.
A sound of table breaking echoed through the cozy warmth of the Ivory Mare, loud enough to steal attentions. The sound came from the corner. A table splintering in two, followed by a grunt and the dull thud of a body hitting the floor.
Tom, Albert Newton to everyone else turned slightly on his stool. His calm, half-drunken act unbroken. Through the dim orange glow and haze of cigar smoke, a man stood tall amid chaos. His coat — a light red that caught the barlight like a flame fluttered as he moved.
Black hair, slicked back neatly with gel, a fedora tilted just enough to give him that half-reckless charm. Around his neck hung a red scarf embroidered with tiny white flowers. His boots made crisp, heavy sounds against the wooden floor as he walked forward.
Three men lay sprawled at his feet, clutching bruised ribs and faces. The red-coated stranger adjusted his fedora and said coolly,
"Guess that is what happens when you don't keep your hands to yourselves."
One of the downed men spat out, "Y-you didn't have to—"
"Oh, I did," the man interrupted, crouching to his level. His tone dropped, smooth yet fierce. "You were teasing a woman in the washroom. You thought she was too scared to shout. And everyone around?"
He looked around the bar; half the crowd averted their eyes. "They saw and did nothing."
He stood up, brushing the dust from his coat. "That's the funny thing about people. Everyone loves justice when it costs them nothing. But when it needs a step forward, a punch thrown or a word spoken — suddenly, it's 'none of my business.'"
The men stared at him, wide-eyed, as he leaned closer. "You've already lost more than this fight. You've lost your humanity here. Remember this moment next time you see someone scared because fear doesn't need a reason, but courage always does."
The bar was silent. The only sound was rain tapping against the glass. One of the men stammered, "We.… we're sorry. We won't—"
"Good," the man said simply, tipping his hat. "Keep that promise. Don't make someone else clean up your cowardice again."
He straightened his scarf, turned and began walking toward the counter. His stride was casual now, shoulders loose, confidence bleeding from every motion. The onlookers quickly turned away pretending to mind their drinks again.
The stranger stopped at the empty stool across from Tom's table. He gave a small grin, the kind that only half-apologized for the scene he caused. "Mind if I join, detective?"
Tom raised an eyebrow, still playing his role. "As long as you don't break this table too."
The man chuckled and sat down, pulling his scarf tighter. "Harriet Clover," he said, offering a hand. "Private investigator. Seems we're in the same pit, eh?"
Tom nodded slowly. "Albert Newton," he replied, voice steady. "You must be the one they said I'd meet about the Mr. Shaw's case."
Harriet waved the bartender over, ordered two drinks, then leaned in with a lopsided smile. "You know, you've got a good poker face, Albert. When I walked in, I thought you were half-dead drunk. Those looks...." he pointed lazily with his finger, "....they were different from everyone. You have gone through a lot, didn't you?"
Tom didn't answer. He only took the glass the bartender slid toward him and said, "You fight well."
Harriet laughed, tilting his hat down slightly. "You learn a few tricks when life keeps handing you the wrong deck. Hey, about that case...." He pulled a thin folder from inside his coat and slid it across the table. "Our murdered noble? Liam Shaw's uncle. But it's not just a family tragedy. There's something underneath it. Witnesses said his blood turned black before he died."
Tom frowned slightly, eyes narrowing.
Harriet sipped his drink. "I've seen a lot of corpses in my years, but never one that bled like oil. The city coroner's scared stiff, swore it wasn't poison or disease. Something unnatural."
Harriet leaned back, grin slowly faded into something thoughtful. "So, Albert.… what do you say we dig a little deeper? Into this city that is too clean for its own good."
Tom's gaze drifted toward the rain-streaked glass, his reflection split in two by the light.
"Yeah," he said softly. "Let's see what's hiding under its shine."
Rain splattered against the glass doors as they pushed out of the bar and into the neon-lit streets. The storm hadn't stopped. It only seemed to have grown heavier, as if the sky itself was drunk and stumbling.
The reflections of moving signs shimmered across the puddles like fractured constellations. It was rainy season there, of course.
Harriet tilted his fedora forward and let out a small chuckle. "Well, partner," he said, half-laughing, half-sighing, "if all cases start with a bar brawl, I might as well make this a habit."
Albert Newton, walked beside him silently. Hands tucked into his coat pockets. His eyes scanned everything; flickering streetlights, the click footsteps behind them, even the faint steam rising from the road vents. His instincts never rested, not anymore.
"Hey, did you hear the latest news?" Harriet suddenly said, lowering his voice but still grinning like it was gossip. "About that whole Durkan Legion mess? Apparently, an Overseer tried to descend there a few days ago. The papers said it was like the reality almost died, people went insane, all that weird stuffs happened. But somehow…." he snapped his fingers, "some heroes stopped it. Saved everyone. Crazy, huh?"
Tom's step faltered barely.
Harriet didn't notice; he kept talking animatedly, his scarf fluttering in the wind.
"Whole place nearly turned into a crater, I heard. The nearby Legion's Empires even sent cleanup teams to check if the 'entity' left behind traces. Everyone keeps calling it a miracle. Guess Durkan's got guardian angels or something."
Tom's eyes narrowed slightly. A heartbeat, seemed to dull, replaced by an old whisper. Grace's laughter, Elior's firm voice, a cheerful boy's brave cry on the battlefield, a deadass singer with poetry, that doomed dude....
He expressed nothing out. His face, shadowed under the wide brim of his hat, didn't twitch. Inside, though, a wound reopened beneath layers of calm.
"Heroes.…" he murmured quietly, almost to himself.
"What was that?" Harriet asked, glancing over.
"Nothing," Tom said, shaking it off. "Just…. remembering something."
Harriet grinned, bumping his shoulder. "You, remembering? I thought detectives like you only think about facts."
"Sometimes," Tom replied evenly, "memories are the most dangerous facts."
Harriet laughed. "Man, you're a strange one. Come on, before we drown out here. We've got a dead uncle waiting for justice."
Tom nodded. "Let's go."
They continued to walk steady and relentless as they made their way toward the mist-drenched Shaw Estate, where shadows of the past awaited them both.