Victoria City, 2:13 a.m.The rain hadn't stopped for hours. It fell in sheets, hammering the rooftops, washing neon signs into blurry streaks of light. Sirens wailed in the distance—just another night in a city where crime was louder than the weather.
Detective Jesse White pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders as he ducked under the yellow tape. The alley reeked of rust, oil, and something far worse—blood. A single floodlight buzzed above, casting a pale circle over the crumpled body on the wet concrete.
The missing C.I. had finally been found. Two weeks too late.
"Blunt force trauma," muttered the coroner, adjusting his gloves. "Back of the head. Quick and clean."
Jesse crouched beside the body, studying the angle of the wound, the way the man's shoes were scuffed, the broken watch strap hanging from his wrist. Every detail whispered a story. Jesse listened.
"First case as a detective, and they hand you this one." A grizzled officer shook his head. "Tough luck, White."
Jesse didn't answer. His eyes drifted to the shadow of the warehouse towering above them—the old Black Industries facility, sold off quietly months ago.
He knew what everyone else was already whispering:Deuce Black's ghost still lingered here.
And now, so did murder.
The precinct smelled of burnt coffee, wet coats, and tired cops. Phones rang. Papers shuffled. Somewhere in the corner, a rookie tried to wrestle a printer back to life. Jesse ignored it all as he dropped the case file onto his desk.
The clock read 8:47 a.m., but Jesse had been awake since the call came in around two. He loosened his tie, rubbed his temples, and opened the folder.
Victim: Jonathan Pike, confidential informant.Cause of death: Blunt force trauma, consistent with a single heavy strike.Location: Warehouse district, Black Industries facility (recently sold).
Jesse tapped his pen against the page. That last line bothered him the most. Black Industries. The name alone was enough to stir trouble.
"White."
He looked up. Captain Raymond Locke stood in front of his desk, hands on his hips, eyes sharp as a hawk sizing its prey. Everyone else in the squad room suddenly looked very busy.
"Captain," Jesse said, straightening.
"Word of advice." Locke lowered his voice. "This isn't the kind of case you make a career out of. Pike was dirty. Probably pissed off the wrong people. Happens all the time. File it as gang business and move on."
Jesse frowned. "With respect, sir, Pike wasn't just any C.I. He was working on something—big. If we find who killed him, we find what he uncovered."
Locke's smile didn't reach his eyes. "That's enthusiasm talking. Enthusiasm gets detectives killed. Don't dig where you don't belong."
The captain walked off, leaving Jesse staring after him.
He opened the victim's phone records—half the texts were encrypted, but one stuck out. A final message sent two hours before Pike vanished:"Meeting at the Black facility. If I don't come out, you know where to look."
Jesse leaned back in his chair, jaw tight. The warehouse wasn't just a crime scene—it was a breadcrumb Pike had left behind.
Across the room, his training officer—now Lieutenant Kennedy—caught his eye. Kennedy gave him a small nod, the kind that said: Trust your gut, kid. But watch your back.
Jesse closed the file. He already knew what his next step had to be.
Deuce Black.
The man the city believed was guilty of murder long before Pike's body ever turned up. The man who built an empire out of steel and genius, only to vanish into the shadows.
If the past five years had taught Jesse anything, it was this:Where Deuce Black's name appeared, bodies weren't far behind.