Chapter 1 — The Case Begins

Cyrus

The rain came down in relentless sheets, drumming against the narrow glass panes of Cyrus Rook’s office and blurring the gray skyline beyond. He leaned back in his chair, the faint amber glow of his desk lamp casting long shadows over the cluttered surface. Manila folders sprawled haphazardly, half-empty coffee mugs crowding the edges. A cigarette perched precariously on the lip of an overfilled ashtray, its faint smell mixing with the damp chill seeping in from outside. The broken neon sign outside flickered erratically, casting fractured light into the room and matching the city’s restless pulse.

Cyrus rubbed his temple absently, staring at the open file before him—a missing persons case he’d closed two days earlier. The job paid enough to keep the lights on, but not enough to quiet the gnawing sense of futility that lingered whenever he thought about his work. Most days, he told himself it was just a paycheck. But every so often, a case left a mark, the kind of grime you couldn’t scrub off with a shower or a stiff drink. He glanced at the pocket watch resting on his desk; his thumb brushed the tarnished chain, a reflexive motion. Its cracked glass face caught the light, like a mirror reflecting something broken.

A creak from the door pulled him from his thoughts. Cyrus straightened in his chair, his sharp gray eyes flicking upward. The figure standing in the doorway looked out of place—too polished, too tailored for a neighborhood where the rain turned to oily puddles on cracked sidewalks. The man stepped inside, his charcoal suit fitting like a second skin, exuding control with every deliberate movement. His slicked-back blond hair gleamed faintly in the dim light, and his icy blue eyes swept the room with a calculated gaze. Even the air seemed to shift with his presence, colder, heavier.

Cyrus tilted the brim of his fedora down slightly, masking the scrutiny in his stare. “Can I help you?”

The man smiled, his expression smooth and practiced. “Mr. Rook, I presume?”

“Depends on who’s asking.”

“Elliot Castiel.” He stepped further into the room, his voice a polished blend of civility and command. Without waiting for an invitation, he extended a hand.

Cyrus didn’t take it. A faint crack appeared in Elliot’s otherwise impenetrable demeanor, but it vanished just as quickly. His smile never faltered as he lowered his hand and seated himself in the chair opposite the desk, his movements unhurried. Elliot crossed one leg over the other, his polished shoe resting on his knee, and leaned back with the ease of a man who owned every room he entered.

“I hear you’re good at finding things—or watching them,” Elliot said, his tone edged with faint amusement. “I admire discretion in a person.”

Cyrus studied him in silence, taking in the cufflinks that caught the dim light, the faint scent of expensive cologne that followed him in. There was something unnervingly precise about the man—his words, his posture, even the way his gaze lingered on the peeling wallpaper as though cataloging the room’s flaws.

“Depends on the job,” Cyrus replied, his voice flat. “What is it you’re looking for?”

“My wife,” Elliot said smoothly, his smile sharpening.

The word hung in the air, slicing through the steady rhythm of rain against the windows. Cyrus’s thumb stilled on the cigarette he’d been toying with.

“Missing?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“No.” Elliot leaned forward slightly. “Not yet. But I’m concerned she might be... distracted. Entertaining attention outside our marriage.”

The euphemisms were familiar, polished words designed to wrap up something ugly in a veneer of civility. But it was the way Elliot said “marriage” that made Cyrus’s jaw tighten—possessive, like he was talking about property, not a partner.

“I see.” Cyrus leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. His gray eyes remained fixed on Elliot’s face. “And you want me to confirm your suspicions.”

“I want the truth, Mr. Rook. That’s what you specialize in, isn’t it? Finding the truth?”

The word hit like a jab to the ribs, and Cyrus’s gaze flicked briefly to the pocket watch on his desk. He didn’t touch it, but the familiar weight of its presence steadied him, even as unease coiled tightly in his gut. Elliot didn’t seem like a man who wanted the truth—he wanted validation, control, and probably leverage.

“Why not hire one of your usual guys?” Cyrus asked, feigning disinterest.

Elliot’s smile thinned, his gaze cool and appraising. “Because this requires finesse. Someone outside the usual circles. Someone with a reputation for results.” His eyes flicked to the tattered edges of the office, the peeling wallpaper and the battered filing cabinet. “And I suspect you could use the financial incentive.”

Cyrus’s jaw tightened, the subtle insult hitting its mark. He didn’t bother responding, letting the silence stretch out instead. Elliot reached into his coat and withdrew an envelope, setting it on the desk with an almost theatrical precision.

“You’ll find photographs, her routine, and a modest advance to cover expenses,” Elliot said. “I trust you understand the importance of discretion.”

Cyrus didn’t touch the envelope immediately. He let it sit there between them, its edges sharp and stark against the dimly lit desk. He watched Elliot carefully, noting the faint flicker of impatience that crossed the man’s otherwise composed features. It wasn’t just impatience—it was control, coiled and barely contained.

“Why now?” Cyrus asked, his tone measured. “What’s changed to make you concerned?”

Elliot’s expression didn’t falter, but there was a flicker of something darker beneath his polished facade. “Let’s just say I value loyalty, Mr. Rook. And I don’t tolerate uncertainty.”

The words were as smooth as ever, but the undercurrent of menace was unmistakable, and it lingered in the air like the faint scent of cologne he’d brought with him. Cyrus met Elliot’s gaze evenly, though every instinct screamed that this was the kind of man who didn’t make idle threats.

Finally, Cyrus reached for the envelope, the paper heavier than it looked as he held it between his fingers. The weight of it pressed against the edges of his conscience, tipping scales he wasn’t sure he wanted to balance. But the rent didn’t pay itself, and the kind of money Elliot could throw around might even fix the damn neon sign outside.

“Fine,” Cyrus said, his voice low. “I’ll need a few days.”

“Of course.” Elliot rose smoothly, brushing a nonexistent speck of lint from his sleeve. His gaze lingered on the pocket watch for a fraction of a second, the faintest flicker of amusement crossing his face. Cyrus’s hand tightened around the envelope.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Elliot said, pausing at the door. His hand rested on the knob, but he glanced back over his shoulder. “Discretion, Mr. Rook. Any lapse in that regard, and things will get... complicated.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the room colder and quieter than before. Cyrus sat back in his chair, the rain tapping insistently against the windows. He stared at the envelope for a moment, his thumb tracing the crease along its edge. Something about this job didn’t sit right—maybe it was the way Elliot spoke about his wife like an object to be owned, or maybe it was the flicker of something dangerous behind his perfect smile.

Cyrus reached for his cigarette and lit it with a flick of his lighter, the first curl of smoke spiraling toward the ceiling. His gaze drifted to the pocket watch on the desk, its cracked face gleaming faintly in the lamplight. The inscription on the back echoed in his mind: “Truth is eternal.”

Exhaling a long plume of smoke, Cyrus leaned back, his gaze fixed on the rain-soaked world outside. Trouble had walked through his door, carrying the faint scent of cologne, control, and danger. The kind of trouble you didn’t say no to—but always regretted saying yes to.