The fog rolled off the sea like a bad punchline. It smothered Saltgrave in a damp, gray haze that clung to everything: skin, clothes, hope. Felix "Flick" Marrow leaned against the chipped counter of The Rusty Anchor, his bar and his prison. The neon "Open" sign buzzed and flickered, casting a sickly red glow on his reflection in a cracked mirror behind the liquor shelves. He looked like a man who had told too many jokes and forgotten why they were funny. His dark hair was a mess, his eyes shadowed, and his grin was a reflex he couldn't shake, even now, with the Masquerade of Motives looming like a guillotine.
"Another night, another chance to disappoint," Flick muttered, tossing a rag onto the counter. It landed with a wet slap, smelling faintly of whiskey and regret. The masquerade was tomorrow, Saltgrave's yearly descent into debauchery, where the town's liars and losers wore masks to pretend they weren't drowning in their own secrets. Flick hated it—not just the costumes or the fake laughter, but the way it stirred memories of his sister, Lila. Her blood stained the cliffs ten years ago, and her murder remained unsolved. Every year, the masquerade felt like a taunt, reminding him that her killer was still out there, probably sipping champagne in Cliffside Manor.
The bar was empty except for Old Man Crabb, slumped in a corner booth and snoring into his beer. The jukebox sputtered a warped rendition of a forgotten jazz tune. The floorboards creaked under Flick's boots as he paced. He stopped at a corkboard by the door, pinned with faded flyers and a single crumpled letter he hadn't shown anyone. It had arrived a week ago, slipped under the bar's door at midnight. No stamp, no signature, just six words in jagged handwriting: Your sister's killer will be there. Flick's fingers twitched toward it, but he stopped himself. "Paranoia's a lousy bartender," he said aloud, forcing a chuckle that sounded more like a cough.
The door swung open, slicing through the fog with a gust of salty air. In walked Dr. Evelyn Voss, her blazer sharp as a blade, her eyes sharper. She moved like she owned the room, each step deliberate, her dark hair pulled back tightly. Flick's heart did a little tap dance—half fear, half something he refused to name. He hadn't seen her in years, not since the scandal that ruined her career and drove her from the city. She was supposed to be in Boston, fixing rich people's brains, not here stirring up ghosts.
"Well, well," Flick said, leaning forward with a grin he didn't feel. "If it isn't the shrink who broke more minds than she fixed. What's the occasion, Doc? Lose another patient?"
Evelyn's smile was precise and cold. "And if it isn't the comedian who forgot how to laugh. Pour me a drink, Flick. Something strong enough to make this town bearable." She slid onto a barstool, her gaze scanning the room like she was cataloging every flaw—the peeling wallpaper, the sticky floor, Flick himself.
He grabbed a bottle of bourbon and poured her a double. "What's a disgraced therapist doing in Saltgrave? Running out of lives to ruin?"
"Charming as ever," she said, taking the glass. Her fingers brushed his, and he flinched, hating himself for it. "I'm here for a client. Anonymous. Paid in cash. Said they'd meet me at the masquerade." Her eyes locked onto his, searching. "You're going, I assume? Still chasing Lila's shadow?"
Flick's grin faltered. He turned away, busying himself with wiping down the already clean counter. "You know me, Doc. Can't resist a party where everyone's lying." He wanted to ask how she knew about Lila and why she was really here, but the words stuck in his throat. Evelyn always had a way of peeling back his layers, and he wasn't ready to bleed tonight.
Before he could say more, the door banged open again, and Riley Quinn sauntered in, all charm and danger wrapped in a leather jacket. Their hair was a tousled mess of black curls, and their smile could disarm or destroy. Riley was Saltgrave's resident hustler, a bartender at The Rusty Anchor when they weren't running side gigs nobody talked about. They carried a confidence that made you check your wallet.
"Evening, losers," Riley said, tossing a set of keys onto the counter. "Fog's thicker than Crabb's skull out there. You two plotting a heist or just flirting badly?" They leaned against the bar, close enough to Flick that he could smell their cheap and spicy cologne.
"Flirting's not my style," Flick shot back, but his grin returned, looser now. Riley had that effect—making everything feel like a game, even when it wasn't. "You working the masquerade tomorrow?"
"Wouldn't miss it," Riley said, winking at Evelyn. "Best place to pick pockets and break hearts. You in, Doc? Or you too busy analyzing everyone's daddy issues?"
Evelyn sipped her bourbon, unfazed. "I'll be there. Observing. You'd be surprised how much people reveal when they think they're hidden." Her tone was light, but her eyes lingered on Riley like she was solving a puzzle with missing pieces.
The door opened a third time, and the air changed, heavy with something new. Marina Holt stood in the doorway, her coat dripping wet, her face pale as the fog outside. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her blonde hair tangled, but there was a fire in her that made Flick step back. He knew her story—everyone in Saltgrave did. Her husband, Tom, died at last year's masquerade, a fall from the manor's balcony ruled an accident. Nobody believed it, least of all Marina.
"Flick," she said, her voice raw. "I need your help." She didn't acknowledge Evelyn or Riley, her gaze fixed on him like he was her last lifeline.
"Marina, I'm not a detective," Flick said, softening his tone. "You know that."
"You were there last year," she snapped, stepping closer. "You saw Tom before he...fell. You know something, don't you?" Her hands shook, but her jaw was set, a mix of grief and rage that made the room feel smaller.
Riley raised an eyebrow, leaning back. "Drama already? It's not even midnight."
"Shut up, Riley," Marina said, not looking at them. "Flick, please. The masquerade's tomorrow, and I know it wasn't an accident. Someone pushed him. I need to know who."
Evelyn set her glass down with a soft clink. "Grief makes us see patterns where there are none, Mrs. Holt. Are you sure you're not chasing ghosts?"
Marina whirled on her. "Don't patronize me. I know what I know." Her voice cracked, and Flick saw the tears she was fighting back. He wanted to help, but the letter in his pocket burned, a reminder of his own ghosts.
Before he could respond, the jukebox cut out, plunging the bar into silence. Old Man Crabb snorted awake, muttering about the tide. Then the lights flickered, once, twice, and went out completely. The room was swallowed by darkness, broken only by the faint glow of the neon sign outside.
"Great," Riley said, their voice breaking the quiet. "Power's out. Anyone got a flashlight, or are we playing hide-and-seek with the ghosts now?"
Flick fumbled for his phone, but a sound stopped him—a low, deliberate creak from the back of the bar, where the storage room door was. It wasn't the wind. It wasn't the building settling. It was footsteps, slow and heavy, coming closer.
"Who's there?" Flick called, his voice sharper than he meant. There was no answer, just another creak, closer now. His hand closed around a bottle, gripping it like a club. Evelyn stood, her posture tense, while Riley's grin vanished. Marina's breath hitched, her eyes wide in the dim light.
The footsteps stopped. Then, from the darkness, a voice—low, raspy, barely human—whispered, "You shouldn't have come back, Flick."
A shadow moved in the doorway, tall and wrong, and something metallic glinted in its hand. Flick's heart raced, the letter's words echoing in his mind: Your sister's killer will be there. Was this it? Was this the moment everything unraveled?
Before he could move, the shadow lunged.