Rift soot coated everything in monochrome, draining the world of color. You only saw real color inside homes, on magical items, or when you wiped the soot away.


    These self-righteous clowns would persecute you, fire you on the spot if you were found to be Hexborn. Like they were somehow above it all. But guess what? Even they couldn’t escape the rift. Rift stuck to the backs of angels and demons alike, so the saying went. We were all Devil Kissed to some degree.


    Magic wasn’t just a part of our lives now, it was our lifeblood. Ever since those rifts started tearing open, we couldn’t live without it. But that was a thought for another time.


    I sat and stared at the woman before me. The rain outside died down. The fire crackled, our hands slowly thawing in the warmth. Silence hung between us like an old friend we didn''t need to entertain. And I was perfectly fine with that.


    The piano stopped playing as a bard sauntered up to the makeshift stage in the corner, her lute resting easy against her hip. With a few practiced strums, the bar hummed to life with soft, melodic chords. For a breath, I let the world''s weight slip off my shoulders.


    She was a woman with warm brown skin and eyes that gleamed like jade. Faint lines creased her face, the only tell of her years. Angelica. Her voice? It was a lullaby for the restless, smoothing out the jagged edges of my thoughts. She crooned about lands we dreamt of and adventures we craved, spinning tales of fierce damsels who saved themselves and rugged men discovering their souls. Her songs were like a cozy quilt on a bitter winter''s night.


    The room hushed, spellbound by her melody. I savored the quiet, a rare gift for my stormy mind.


    As her first song faded, I broke the spell. Leaning forward, elbows digging into my knees, I finally spoke.


    "So, how about we start with a name and what brings you to my dingy little corner of the world?" I asked, keeping it light, though my curiosity was anything but casual.


    She looked at me, and for a moment, her eyes pulled me in like a riptide. Pain seared through my chest, snapping me back to reality.


    "Aylin. Aylin McGuffey. I''m looking for someone," she said, her voice trembling like a leaf in a storm.


    "Who exactly are you hoping to find around here?" I scanned the room, noting the usual suspects - locals, lowlifes, and the kind of riffraff that blended in perfectly with the worn-out decor.


    "A man named Jack Callaghan. Do you know him?" Her voice wavered, and she stared down at her hands as if they held the answers.


    I frowned. "Yeah, I know him. What''s your business with that particular piece of work?"


    She hesitated, fingers knotting together. "I... I can''t say."


    I leaned back, arms crossed, giving her the once-over. "Can''t or won''t? Look, if you want my help, honesty’s not optional."


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    Her eyes lifted, fear mingling with a desperate plea. "I... I need his help."


    I sighed, realizing this was going to be a long night. The flicker of the fireplace danced across her face, casting soft shadows that highlighted her raw, unrefined beauty. There was an authenticity to her that was hard to ignore.


    "Alright, Aylin. Spill it. What''s so dire that you''d seek out the infamous Jack Callaghan? Haven’t you heard? He’s washed-up, out of business. Hasn’t had a steady job in years."


    Murphy returned with a few more towels and two steaming mugs. "What''s this?" I asked, eyeing the drink with suspicion.


    "Second fastest way to warm someone up that I know of," he replied. The aroma hit me gently: sweet, hot, and undeniably alcoholic. I was pretty sure it was Earl Grey spiked with buttered rum.


    "Second?" Aylin blushed at his knowing wink.


    "Go easy on it. This stuff will knock you on your ass faster than your mother can spit," Murphy warned.


    I took a cautious sip. It barely registered on my tongue. "Watering down the drinks again, Murph?"


    He shot me a quizzical look, then grabbed another bottle from the shelf and poured me a shot. "Alright, big shot. Have a go at this one."


    I downed the shot. Still nothing. I shrugged.


    "Saints help you, Jack." Murphy had never been one to back down from a challenge. The fire in his eyes told me he’d made it his personal mission to find something strong enough to hit.


    "Jack? You''re Detective Jack Callaghan?" Aylin''s eyes widened in recognition.


    “I haven''t been called that in a long time.”


    “You look nothing like your photo.” She pulled an old newspaper clipping from her purse. Famed Hunter Faces Tragedy... There was an old photo of me and Frank.


    The sting of the memory knotted my nerves, leaving me on edge. "Mind telling me what in the abyss is going on here?" I snapped. "How do you know who I am? And who were those men?"


    "I''m sorry. It wasn’t easy finding you."


    "Talk faster, kid." I braced myself on the seat, ready to bolt at the next wrong word.


    “Listen, Mr. Callaghan, I’ve come a long way. If you could just hear me out. It’s my uncle,” she paused, searching for the words.


    “Spit it out.”


    “He’s been murdered. And those men who attacked me, they’re after me too.” Her eyes, deep and blue like an ocean storm, threatened to pull me under.


    "I didn''t know where else to go. You''re my last hope, Jack." Her hands trembled—fear or cold, didn’t matter. Both were dangerous.


    “Go to the police.”


    Aylin’s voice dropped to a whisper. Tears shimmered in her eyes. “The police say it was suicide. But I know that can’t be true.” She clutched a delicate silver key, hands shaking. “My uncle Robert was found in his study. But suicide is ridiculous. He couldn’t stand the sight of a paper cut, let alone...”


    Robert McGuffey. The name clicked. Rich guy, big shot collector, found with his throat slit in a locked room. Suicide, they said. Simple as that. But in my line of work, locked doors were just polite suggestions to the supernatural.


    "Collectors," I muttered. "Always digging up things better left buried."


    Her eyes widened with hope, or maybe it was just the bar''s dim light playing tricks. "You believe me?"


    "I believe the dead don''t always stay quiet. And collectors? They have a knack for pissing off the wrong kind of spirits." I leaned in, lowering my voice. "Tell me everything you know about those men."