The war had ended three years ago, but the city still smelled of smoke.
Every cracked wall and rusted sign felt like a witness, whispering what had been done here. The government promised rebirth, swore that "a brighter tomorrow" was written in every speech and every banner draped over the ruins. But the people of Greyveil walked with empty eyes, pockets hollow, and voices hushed.
Detective Aric Vale lit a cigarette as he stood at the corner of Hollowmarket, watching the crowds shuffle past. He didn't smoke out of habit. He smoked because it gave him something to do with his hands when the silence pressed too hard.
Today was different, though.
Today was the anniversary of his sister's death.
Her name was Liora Vale. Once, she was just another archivist cataloguing the war records. Then she started whispering to him about contradictions, missing reports, "numbers that don't add up." She promised she'd bring him proof. A week later, she was dead—officially, an accident.
Aric never believed it.
The ash on his cigarette tip trembled as a boy tugged his sleeve. "Mister, are you Detective Vale?" The boy's eyes were wide, nervous. He carried a stack of poorly bound papers under his arm—pamphlets that the government had forbidden.
"Depends who's asking."
The boy shoved one into Aric's hand and darted back into the crowd before he could ask more. The paper smelled of cheap ink. The words were jagged, scrawled, but clear:
"The war never ended. The battlefield just moved into our pockets."
And at the bottom, almost hidden in the folds of the paper, a signature Aric hadn't seen in three years:
–L.V.
His heart froze. His sister's initials.
The world tilted.
Someone in Greyveil was pretending his sister still lived. Or worse—someone had taken up her work.
Aric crushed the cigarette under his boot and scanned the crowd. Everyone looked away. Everyone had secrets.
But one thing was certain.
The war hadn't left him behind. It was calling him back into the shadows.
And he was ready to answer.