A few days had passed since the emotional encounter in the shadowy corners of Dahm.
The city was a patchwork of contradictions, with each neighborhood reflecting a different face of its identity.
The suburban calm of Samuel's area, the industrious hustle of mine, the opulence of Cassandra's surroundings, and the bleak poverty of Dolores' streets all seemed like pieces of a fractured mirror, each shard holding its own truth.
All were different, each reflecting an ugly phase of the city's existence. They stood facing each other, like mirrors locked in opposition. One mirrored raw, unfiltered ugliness, another captured stark realism, while the last offered a refined, impossibly perfect façade—each a distinct yet connected piece of identity.
I sat at my desk, observing Sasha, who seemed happier than usual. Her composure was relaxed, and she typed away at her computer with an unusual lightness. A new magazine rested on her table, its glossy cover catching my eye. I smirked inwardly, amused by how easily material things seemed to brighten a woman's mood.
Turning my attention to the Dahm Times, I skipped past the usual sections and let my eyes land on an article in the Science column. It discussed a groundbreaking discovery in genetics—a successful project that had mapped the entire human genome.
The project was called- The human genome project.
The article described it as revolutionary, a breakthrough celebrated across the globe. I couldn't claim to understand the intricate details, but the weight of its significance was clear.
I smirked, folding the newspaper and setting it aside for a moment. I lit a cigarette, placing it between my lips, inhaling the first puff.
From my pen holder, I grabbed an old pen—dusty from years of disuse. I didn't bother to clean it. With the cigarette still between my lips, I reached for a notepad and began jotting down the latest clues.
I struck through "Jake Brooks" and the name of the pregnant woman already written, shaking my head, trying to make sense of it all. The smoke curled from my lips, forming its familiar patterns in the air.
Leaning back against the chair, I waved the notepad in front of me, desperate to piece together the recent leads.
I exhaled, a thick plume of smoke rising into the room.
The notepad already held the clue:
Catwoman
Kitty (from the cathouse)
I set the notepad back down on the desk, then grabbed a fresh one and penned a new entry: A mysterious $50,000 from an unknown source, delivered with a preserved dick in a jar to Dolores Perez.
This case had already spiraled into something far more tangled, and now, with this new clue, the complications had deepened further.
The notepad laid open before me, taunting me with its chaotic scrawl of clues. My gaze drifted to the detail I couldn't shake—the 39 eyes in the jar.
I tapped the pen vigorously between my fingers, the repetitive motion steadying my restless mind. The image of those eyes swam before me, preserved in their grotesque clarity. Thirty-nine. Not forty. Not thirty-eight. Why that number?
It wasn't random. Nothing about this case was.
Samuel barged into the room, balancing two coffee cups with the casual grace of someone who didn't care if he spilled a drop. He had promised me a week of free coffee after I'd solved one of his homicide cases—a case that had been eating away at him for months. The man was good, but even the best have their blind spots.
"Yo, Hoffman," Samuel called out, his voice carrying a familiar blend of mischief and exhaustion. He placed one of the coffees on Sasha's desk without breaking stride, then made a beeline for mine.
"Still clinging to your ride-or-die soulmate?" he asked, nodding toward the cigarette in my hand.
I smirked, tapping ash into the tray. "She never lets me down," I said, taking a slow drag before exhaling a thin plume of smoke.
Samuel dragged a chair from the corner, its legs screeching against the floor like nails on a chalkboard. He plopped down across from me, the usual light in his eyes dulled by something heavier today. Frustration and fatigue clung to him like a second skin.
He slid my coffee across the table. "How's your day?"
I glanced at the cup but didn't touch it yet. Instead, I flicked ash into the tray again and leaned back, blowing another puff into the already stale air. "Uneventful," I said after a moment, the word curling out with the smoke.
"Yeah, figured," Samuel muttered, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. He rubbed his face with one hand, his weariness plain to see. "Mine's been the same—except with an extra layer of hell."
I finally reached for the coffee, letting the warmth seep into my fingers before taking a sip. It was black and bitter, just how I liked it. "What's eating at you this time?"
He sighed, staring at the floor like it held all the answers. "Same old circus. Paperwork piling up, higher-ups breathing down my neck. Oh, and I still can't get that scene from last week out of my head."
I studied him for a moment, the lines on his face etched deeper than usual. Samuel had a way of carrying the weight of the world, even when he didn't have to.
"You need to sleep, Waltzman," I said, stubbing out the cigarette in the ashtray. "Or drink more coffee. Either works."
He gave a humorless chuckle. "Thanks for the groundbreaking advice, Doc."
I took another sip of coffee, the warmth spreading through me as I followed it with a drag of my cigarette. One sip, one puff. Coffee to wake me up, cigarettes to keep me steady. They never argued, never demanded my loyalty. Cheat on one, and the other didn't mind. That's the beauty of them—balance.
My gaze drifted to Sasha. She was absorbed in her magazine, her expression flickering between curiosity and amusement. Women and their fashion—it wasn't just an obsession, it was instinctual, like breathing. Every now and then, she'd let out a quiet chuckle, oblivious to the rest of the room.
Meanwhile, Samuel was in full rant mode. He leaned back in his chair, gesturing with one hand as he detailed how work was grinding him down. Bureaucracy, politics, endless red tape. It was always something with him.
"You know," I muttered, stubbing out the cigarette in the ashtray, "it's kind of funny hearing you complain about stress. You'd give a psychiatrist nightmares."
"Appreciate the support, Hoffman," he shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Really motivational stuff."
I smirked, taking another slow sip of my coffee. Samuel was Samuel—a storm in perpetual motion. The guy couldn't sit still even if he wanted to, and yet, he acted surprised when chaos found him.
Sasha suddenly jolted upright, her chair screeching against the floor. The magazine slipped from her hands, landing on the desk with a sharp smack.
Her eyes widened, breath catching as she stared at the page. Her hand darted out, pointing to something with a sharp urgency.
After a moment, she slowly sank back into her chair, still staring at the magazine, as if trying to piece something together.