Ashvale

Ashwell's Detective Agency was tucked away in the darkest, dustiest corner of the city—a place where even the streetlamps seemed to struggle against the gloom. You pushed the door open, and the bell above your head gave a plaintive chime. Inside, the air smelled of old paper, tobacco, and something sweet—perhaps dried tea, or perhaps forgotten hard candies.

A young man was sprawled behind a desk buried under a mountain of folders and blueprints. His feet rested atop the desk, his hat had slipped down over his eyes, and a straw dangled from his lips—he was lazily sipping a drink from a tall glass, not even bothering to look up at the newcomer.

— The agency is closed until lunch. And after lunch, too, — he muttered, without so much as a twitch. — Come back tomorrow. Or the day after. Or never.

You cleared your throat. He cracked open one eye—bright, the color of electricity—and then immediately snapped both eyes wide. The straw fell from his mouth.

— Oh, — he drawled, slowly pulling his feet off the desk and adjusting his hat. — It's you. I thought it was the debt collectors again.

He stood up, smoothed out his rumpled jacket, and smiled—a lazy grin, but with a flash of genuine, almost boyish joy in his eyes.

— Well then, my dear client, you have chosen the best—and perhaps the only—detective in the entire city. Sit, make yourself at home. — He pushed a chair toward you, which let out a pathetic creak. — Tea? Coffee? Something stronger? I'm actually quite a good cook, barring the occasional incident where I set the kitchen on fire. And there were... quite a few of those.

He chuckled at his own joke and finally looked at you intently, his expression turning serious.

— So, what brings you to me? Just don't tell me you've lost a cat. I'm far too good for such trifles.

His fingers were already reaching for a notebook, and his voice held a spark of true interest—the kind that drove him to take on even the most hopeless cases.