The desk had only ever been meant for one person—and it hated the idea of sharing.
Arthur Hale knew this because it wobbled slightly to the left, because the drawer stuck unless you lifted it just right, and because the coffee ring burned into its surface matched the bottom of his mug exactly. It was a cheap thing—particle board pretending to be wood—but it had learned his habits. It tolerated him.
The rest of the office didn't.
The room smelled like dust and old paper, sunlight slanting through the blinds in a way that made the air look heavier than it was. The sign on the door still read Arthur Hale, Private Investigations. The lettering was faded, the "P" peeling away as if the very concept of "Private" was becoming an urban myth.
Arthur tipped the contents of his coat pocket onto the desk. Coins clattered softly. Not many. He lined them up by size, counted once, then again. The second count didn't improve the situation. Rent was due tomorrow. Electricity the day after that. The coffee tin was already empty. Each coin felt like a tiny, mocking heartbeat of debt.
He exhaled through his nose and leaned back. The chair groaned, a familiar sound of structural fatigue. That was when he heard the footsteps on the stairs.
Arthur didn't move, but his focus sharpened. His fingers drifted under the desk, brushing the cold, textured grip of the suppressed 9mm taped beneath the particle board. He didn't pull it free. Just held it. A silent anchor in a world that already demanded too much.
The footsteps stopped. No knock. The door opened.
She stepped in like she was checking into a hotel she already owned. She was his age, maybe. Dark hair pulled back loosely, a few strands escaping as if they'd given up on obedience. Her coat was a little too thin for the season, the collar turned up more for habit than warmth. Her eyes flicked to every corner as if measuring escape routes—but she smiled like it was casual. Then they settled on him. She wasn't looking at him as a person; she was looking at him as a variable.
"Are you Arthur Hale?" she asked. Calm. Polite. But with the quiet authority of someone who expected an answer.
"That depends," Arthur said, hand still resting on the gun. "Are you here to pay me, or sue me?"
A corner of her mouth twitched. "I was hoping to avoid both."
She closed the door behind her. Didn't lock it, but stood in a way that blocked the handle perfectly—a tactical stance subtle enough to pass for casual. Arthur noted it anyway: a door-seal.
"My name's Sloane," she said. "And I think we can help each other."
Arthur gestured to the second chair—the one with the loose leg. She sat without testing it, weight balanced just right. She knew exactly where the center of gravity was.
"You're in my office," Arthur said. "Without an appointment."
"You don't have a secretary," she replied. "And your phone number goes to voicemail with a message recorded two years ago. I figured a walk-in was the only way to get a live response."
He studied her properly now. The faint scar near her knuckle, the way she kept her hands visible but relaxed.
"I want to share your office," she said.
Arthur blinked. "No."
"Fifty-fifty on the rent," she countered. "Utilities included. I'm a private investigator. Or… trying to be. I've got experience, no fixed base, and just enough cash left to make one bad decision."
Arthur gestured to the peeling wallpaper and the dust motes dancing in the light. "And this is the bad decision?"
"This is the strategic one."
Before Arthur could argue, the door burst open. A man stormed in, red-faced and sweating, eyes wild. "There you are! You stole my briefcase!"
Arthur rose instantly. He didn't reach for the gun—not yet—but his posture shifted, ready to close the gap in two steps if necessary. "Sir, this is a private office. Calm down."
"She took it!" the man barked, pointing at Sloane.
Sloane didn't stand. She tilted her head, studying him with an almost terrifying lack of emotion. "Did I? What did it look like? Black leather? Combination lock?"
The man blinked, momentum stalling. "I—yeah. That's it."
Sloane stood then, slow and unthreatening, moving into the man's blind spot with fluidity that made Arthur's pulse quicken. She produced a slim black wallet, flipping it open to reveal a badge.
"Fraud division," she said. Her voice was clipped, official, authoritative. "We've been tracking stolen documents matching your description. You're lucky I found it before the syndicates did. Now, why don't you head down to the station and file a formal recovery claim?"
The man went pale, stammered an apology, and fled as if the floor beneath him were on fire.
The silence that followed was thick. Arthur sat back down slowly. He had seen that badge for only half a second, but he knew what to look for: a perfect Republic Intelligence forgery. High-grade. Not from a back-alley printer.
"That was illegal," Arthur said.
Sloane smiled—a sharp, dangerous thing. "You didn't stop me."
"No," he agreed.
She pulled a folded paper from her coat. A pre-typed contract. "Fifty-fifty. No questions about the past. No digging into personal matters. We share the space, share the overhead, stay out of each other's way."
Arthur picked up his pen. He knew he should kick her out. He knew she was a wolf in sheep's clothing. But his bank account was zero, and his own handlers hadn't sent a "maintenance check" in months—never a good sign in his line of work. He was a ghost in a city forgetting him.
He signed.
They locked up an hour later, the city of Onyx Port slipping into bruised purple evening. As Sloane pulled on her leather gloves, Arthur caught a faint acrid scent—the sharp smell of cordite.
"Range day?" he asked casually, nodding toward the gray smudge on her thumb.
Sloane glanced at her hand, then back at him. Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Something like that."
Arthur watched her walk away, silhouette blending perfectly into the street shadows. He had a feeling: one of them would end up in the wrong crosshairs first.
Arthur watched her walk away, silhouette blending perfectly into the street shadows. He had a feeling: one of them would end up in the wrong crosshairs first.