“So, Deadman, what’s the play?”


    “Figure out who’s gunning for me, what foul play led to McGuffey’s death, and who’s pulling the strings. And hopefully, without dying—again.”


    He nodded, like he’d made up his mind. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a folded photograph and tossed it my way. “One photo got developed before the Council hushed it all up, ordered everything destroyed. But you know me.”


    “Perks of working in the filing room,” I said, unfolding it.


    “Thought it might come in handy. Was I right?”


    If I’d eaten, I’d have lost my lunch. The scene looked dredged up from the blackest corner of a nightmare—a body split wide, flesh shredded from the inside out, like something monstrous had clawed its way free. Blood painted the walls, a dark stain that felt as permanent as the horror it left behind. Bits of skin, splinters of bone, and what might once have been organs were strewn across the ground, a grotesque kind of confetti.


    It was far too much body for one man. No, this was a dozen lives, at least. And if it made the news? They’d be nameless, or maybe the kind with no one left to care. That narrowed down the options. Whatever had been trapped inside him hadn’t just escaped; it had torn itself free with the fury of something starved and mad, ripping through every poor soul in its path.


    I felt the key in my pocket. You and your other half did this?


    Mabel returned with Bart’s pie and cup of blasphemy.


    I turned back to Bart. “Clear suicide, huh?”


    “That’s the official report. Got any idea why this warranted a Council hush-up?”


    “I’m piecing it together, but there’s too much guesswork. They’re after something. Something he had, something that… did that to him.” I felt the weight of the key in my pocket, heavier than it had any right to be.


    Bart nodded somberly and, with a calm I could barely fathom, took a bite of his pie. I stared at him, incredulous.


    “What?” he mumbled through a mouthful.


    I shook my head. “So, what else can you tell me about McGuffey?”


    “Not much. Just what’s in the file.”


    I read it over again, feeling that gnawing sense that I was overlooking something—something obvious, staring me right in the face. I flipped to the interviews. “We did the usual, talked to all his closest living relatives. Didn’t take long; not many of them left.”


    Bart’s eyes held a hint of sympathy, but I could see his wheels turning too. He took another bite of pie, speaking as he chewed. “The man’s wife was estranged. Left him a few months before he... well, you know. Makes sense, right? Man loses his wife, decides dive into dark magic, maybe try and get her back.”


    “Did they interview her?”


    If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    “Yeah, but nothing interesting. She left him over his gambling. Her address is in the file.”


    I nodded, leaning in. “Anything else? Any incidents? Criminal connections?”


    Bart shrugged. “He was a collector, but nothing unusual—nothing more illegal than any other rich guy with more money than sense.”


    I sighed, glancing at the files again. “I appreciate this, Bart.”


    “Don’t mention it, Jack. Just make sure whatever you’re digging up doesn’t come back to haunt me.”


    “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I replied with a smirk.


    Bart took another slow bite of his pie, chewing thoughtfully.


    I shook my head, flipping through the photos again.


    “You know what bothers me?” Bart’s tone shifted, catching me off guard. I blinked, trying to keep up with the sudden depth in his voice.


    “What?”


    “What do you think it’s like to be the poor schmuck who has to clean up after something like this?” he asked, voice low, eyes distant, like he was envisioning mop buckets and industrial-grade bleach.


    I frowned. “What the hell are you talking about, Bart?”


    “I mean, think about it. It''s a thankless job. Imagine it was some elaborate demon-rigged suicide, just for argument''s sake. Guy sets it up, kaboom. Someone''s gotta come in and deal with… well, whatever’s left.” He shook his head, mock horror on his face. “I’d at least leave a tip for the cleanup crew.”


    As Mabel passed by with a fresh pot of coffee, she shot Bart a raised eyebrow, clearly deciding we weren’t worth interrupting just yet.


    “Look, even if you’re pissed off enough to go out with a bang, you still tip the waitress, right?” Bart continued.


    I snorted. “Yeah, but how would they know if the service was any good?”


    “Fair point,” Bart said, nodding thoughtfully. “Fair point. But, it''s just rude you know. I suppose the family could always leave a tip."


    Then it hit me, like a punch I should’ve seen coming. It wasn’t in the file, nothing buried in the interviews, no missed detail hiding between the lines. No, it was the absence—something, rather someone missing, a shadow-shaped gap in the story. For hell''s sake. How I hadn''t spotted it before was beyond me. A rookie mistake, one that left me feeling colder than the fresh rain drizzling down in icy sheets outside.


    But I couldn''t act on it yet, I needed to firm up the theory, because if I was wrong…


    The diner hummed with the low murmur of quiet conversations, the soft clink of cutlery, and the sizzle of grease on the grill. I leaned back, letting the sounds wash over me as I ran the idea through my mind, over and over, replaying the past few days like a tape with a bad rewind.


    “I know that look,” Bart said, eyeing me over his pointless coffee. “You’ve got something.”


    “Not just yet,” I murmured, tapping my fingers against the table. “But maybe.”


    Before I could chew on it any further, my thoughts shattered.


    The diner’s front door exploded open with a bone-rattling crash, cutting through the low hum of conversation. Two armed men stormed in, their eyes scanning the room, and the air thickened with a tense, electric silence as every patron froze, breaths held.


    The first figure, a gremlin-touched Hexborn, bore a sickly pallor, his skin gleaming with an unsettling, oily sheen that caught the dim diner lights in all the wrong ways. His fingers were unnaturally long, tapered like talons, with blackened nails that looked charred, as though burned down to some twisted point. Beside him, his partner—a wiry man whose twitchy movements radiated nervous energy—shifted and jittered, his gaunt frame wracked by paranoid tics.


    His eyes darted around the room, never settling on one spot for more than a heartbeat, a man looking for threats in every shadow. He was clearly amped up on Surge-Spice or whatever else the junkies were riding these days. Truth was, I didn’t even know what the addicts were hooked on anymore. The street cocktail changed faster than I could keep track—new poisons hitting the veins every week, each one nastier than the last.