The rain fell in relentless sheets, a gray veil that blurred the world beyond the windowpane. The wind howled around the corners of the building, a shrill, screaming child refusing to be soothed. In the dim light of a cramped apartment, the air was thick with the cloying, sour smell of cheap alcohol.
A man lay sprawled across a worn sofa, his large frame seeming to swallow the furniture. He was dressed in the remnants of a formal suit, now rumpled and stale, over which he wore a brown winter coat. Dark, crimson stains bloomed across its fabric like a sinister Rorschach test. On the low table beside him, an empty bottle of liquor lay on its side, and a half-full glass stood as a testament to the night's excess.
A low groan escaped his lips. "Ah... my head... it's splitting... What happened?"
James pushed himself upright, the movement sending a fresh wave of throbbing pain through his skull. He shuffled towards the kitchen, his steps heavy and uncoordinated. The refrigerator door hissed open, and the cool light illuminated his haggard face. He grabbed a bottle of water and drank from it greedily, the cold liquid a minor relief against the desert in his throat.
His bleary eyes drifted back to the living room, settling on the glass on the table. The realization dawned slowly, painfully. "Did I drink again?...Damn it, James. Damn you."
He moved towards the bathroom, bracing himself against the doorframe. Cupping his hands under the icy tap water, he splashed it onto his face, the shock a feeble attempt to reassemble the shattered pieces of his memory. He looked up into the mirror, meeting the gaze of a stranger with dark, shadowed eyes and disheveled black hair. He tried to smooth it down with a trembling hand. "I really have to stop this."
As he reached for a comb, his fingers fumbled, and it clattered to the tiles. Bending down to retrieve it, his gaze fell upon the dark, ugly blotch on his coat sleeve. "What is this stain?...Did I spill wine on myself?.. This is a new coat."
A deeper unease began to prick at the edges of his hangover. With a sigh of disgust, he shrugged off the stained coat and tossed it into the laundry basket in the corner. "It's going to need some work,"he muttered to the empty room.
Suddenly, the silence was shattered. From the living room, a phone trilled with robotic insistence: "Carl is calling...Carl is calling."
James picked up the device, his voice a gravelly rasp. "Carl."
The voice on the other end was sharp, all business. "Hey James. Get down to the Police station . We've got a case."
James brought his free hand up to massage his temples, a long, weary sigh escaping him. The professional in him was already pushing the pain and the questions aside. "Alright.I'm on my way."
He ended the call. His eyes drifted back to the laundry basket, to the brown coat with its accusing red stains. A grim, resigned understanding settled over him. "Looks like I'm wearing the coat after all."
Minutes later, the blue Ford sedan pulled away from the curb, its headlights cutting twin beams through the weeping city, carrying Detective James toward the grim business of the day.