The rain in New Jericho was a constant, like the city's pulse—relentless, dirty, cold. Detective Elias Park stood under a flickering streetlight, his trench coat soaked through, the weight of it matching the ache in his bones. The alley smelled of rust and regret, the kind of place where secrets went to die. His flashlight cut through the dark, landing on the crime scene: a shattered lab door, glass scattered like broken teeth across the pavement.
"Voss, Lena," Captain Regina Holt said, her voice clipped as she handed Park the file. She was all sharp edges—gray hair pulled tight, eyes like a hawk's. "Neuroscientist. Missing forty-eight hours. Last seen here."
Park flipped open the file. A photo of Dr. Lena Voss stared back—sharp cheekbones, eyes that held too many secrets. Her lab, a low-rent setup in New Jericho's tech district, was trashed. No body, no blood, just chaos. "Why me?" Park asked, his voice rough from too many sleepless nights. "Missing persons isn't Major Crimes."
Holt's lips thinned. "Chief says it's sensitive. Voss was working on something big. Neural tech. Off the books."
Park's gut twisted. Neural tech meant black-market deals, corporate espionage, or worse. Three years ago, a case like this cost him Sarah Dunne, his partner, in a raid gone wrong. He still saw her face in the dark—blood on her cheek, eyes empty. He shoved the memory down. "Witnesses?"
"None," Holt said. "But you've got a lead. Tommy Vega's waiting at The Iron Dog. Says he saw something."
Park grunted. Tommy was a street rat, a hustler hooked on neural stims—unreliable, but occasionally useful. "Anything else?"
Holt hesitated, her eyes flickering. "Watch your back, Elias. This one's… complicated."
She left him in the alley, the rain swallowing her footsteps. Park scanned the lab's wreckage—smashed monitors, overturned tables, a single phrase scrawled in red paint on the wall: The Veil sees you. His fingers brushed the Glock at his hip. He'd heard whispers of The Veil, a ghost story among cops—shadowy fixers who owned the city's soul. He didn't believe in ghosts, but he believed in bodies, and Voss was either one or about to be.
At The Iron Dog, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and despair. Tommy Vega slouched in a corner booth, his hoodie stained, eyes twitching from stims. "Yo, Park," he mumbled, scratching a scab on his neck. "Heard you're looking for the doc."
"What'd you see, Tommy?" Park slid into the booth, his voice low, eyes scanning the bar. A woman at the counter glanced their way—Mara Chen, his old informant, now a hacker who played both sides. She nodded, barely, and Park's jaw tightened. Trouble followed Mara like a shadow.
"Saw a van," Tommy said, voice shaky. "Black, no plates, outside Voss's lab. Two guys, suits, not cops. Dragged something out—big case, maybe equipment. Looked… wrong, man."
"Wrong how?" Park leaned closer, the table sticky under his palms.
Tommy's eyes darted. "Like they knew I was watching. One looked right at me. Felt like he saw my damn soul."
Park slid a twenty across the table. "Names, Tommy. Give me something."
Tommy pocketed the cash, muttering, "Didn't hear none. But… check the docks. Warehouse 17. That's where the van went."
Park stood, his coat dripping onto the floor. Mara was gone from the counter, but a folded napkin sat where she'd been. He grabbed it, unfolding it to find a USB drive and a note in her scrawl: Careful, Park. They're already watching. His pulse kicked up. Mara always knew too much, and trust wasn't in his vocabulary anymore.
Outside, New Jericho's skyline loomed—towers of glass and steel, their lights blurred by rain. Park tucked the drive into his pocket, the words The Veil sees you burning in his mind. He didn't know what Voss had built, or why The Veil wanted it, but he'd find her. Or he'd find her killers. Either way, someone was going to bleed.