The woman scribbled something down, mumbled the case number, and then gave me this sweet, customer-service smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"All done with registration, Mr. Mornez. Hope it all goes well."
"Thanks," I muttered.
I should have taken off my hat, you know, as a gentlemanly gesture or something, but with the way my hair looked? No thanks. I was doing the world a favor keeping it covered.
Right before stepping out, I paused, turned on instinct. Words spilling out of my mouth before I even knew what I was saying:
"By the way, uh... I didn't catch your name?"
She smiled again, same smile. Still service-friendly, but... warmer this time?
"Rida"
Right. Rida.
I gave a nod and finally made my escape from that room.
No drinks. No money for drinks. So I did the next best thing: awkward wave at Miles
near the bar counter as I ghosted past the Salt Tarvan entrance. Politeness was free. Alcohol was not.
My plan was simple. Go back. Lay out the facts. Come up with... well, something. A plan. Maybe.
Problem is, plans take time and thinking, and I had two hours of walking to do before I got anywhere near Mingde
Street.
Horse-drawn carriages clattered by, a couple swerving close enough to spray muck on my boots. Didn't flinch. Couldn't afford to.
Renting one of those things? 25 Donelie at least. And for what? To save me some shoe leather? My wallet might have jumped out and strangled me if I even considered it.
So I walked. The whole way.
I heard whispers about this new thing somewhere—bicycles. Sounded fake. Probably real. Probably expensive.
And me? I'm a broke nobody with an ugly haircut and zero cardio. The perfect hero.
And here's the kicker: I'm not even qualified for this.
I mean—last life? I was a surgeon. Not a detective. Not a police officer. No experience in solving murders, kidnappings, thefts. Absolutely none. Zip.
If it involved a knife and a human body, maybe. Anything else? Completely useless.
Even my supernatural powers weren't the cool, explodey kind. They're barely functional. Life-saving? Sure. But in a fight? I might as well throw red mandarin fruit.
If push came to shove, I could probably manage one or two half-hearted punches before wheezing like a dying goat.
But hey. Gotta laugh or I'll cry.
That's my motto now: relentless, almost annoying optimism.
When it comes to investigating "Enigma" cases—that weird, low-tier stuff? Yeah. I could swing that. I spent a week doing nothing but studying books, old papers, urban myths. I even highlighted stuff.
I highlighted.
Which means I'm basically qualified now, right?
The case? Risky. But also my best shot at getting real money.
Two hours of walking, some cramping legs, and at last, I stood outside No. 12 Mingde Street. Nearly five o'clock. I groaned and made a detour.
The fruit shop downstairs.
Mrs. Alice. Round woman, always smelled faintly of citrus and old leather. Her shop was cramped and had a weird buzzing noise overhead, probably a dying light. Or bees. I never asked.
"Good day, Mrs. Alice," I called out the moment I stepped inside.
She didn't even turn around, just waved a plump hand behind her. "Good day, Mr. Mornez. Haven't seen you in days."
"Been... busy."
She glanced over her shoulder. "What'll it be today?"
"One pound red mandarin oranges. Riper the better."
They look like persimmons, taste like apples. Weird little fruits.
She bagged them, hands quick despite the way her joints cracked. "10 copper Narcs."
I fished through my sad excuse of a coin purse and handed her exact change. Didn't need her pity.
I climbed the stairs, already dreading what I'd find.
And yep. Dust. Piles of it. The kind that settles in like it pays rent.
Guess who forgot to close the window before leaving?
"Ugh. Guess I'm cleaning."
Grabbed what tools I had—a busted broom, a tired rag, and a small bucket that smelled like old soap.
It took longer than it should have.
By the end, I was sweaty, vaguely resentful, and had accidentally elbowed the edge of the table twice.
I bathed, dried off, washed a fruit, and collapsed on the bed with the case file in my lap and juice running down my fingers.
The client was a noble family. Believers of the Saltmother. Rich enough to move from Brass but cheap enough to buy a discounted villa. That alone should've been a red flag.
They moved in 15 days ago.
Everything was fine. Normal. Boring.
Then September 14th hit.
Weird stuff started happening. Random junk showing up in the yard. No explanation. The owner thought it was just careless servants.
Next day? It escalated.
The lady of the house went to bed, warm and cozy. Woke up outside. On the lawn. At dawn. With a high fever.
She nearly died. Church of Saltmother Veriditas got involved. But no injuries, no dead bodies. So the church outsourced it.
To people like me.
File said: "Possible mild Enigma disturbance."
Took me ten minutes to parse that sentence. Bureaucrats and their words.
Still. Ten Sterlings.
TEN.
That's one hundred times what I had.
I smiled. Couldn't help it.
I had no idea what I was doing, but tomorrow I'd meet the family. They weren't staying in the villa anymore. Rented a spot near the church.
Finished the fruit. Tossed the core into the trash. Shoved the file into my closet.
Then I went out again.
Halfway down the stairs, I nearly tripped over this kid.
Well. Not a kid-kid, but a boy. About fifteen? Holding way too many ugly teddy bears.
He stumbled. A bear tumbled down. Then another. Two rolled down the stairs with this dull thump-thump-thump.
"Ah! No!"
He hissed, dropped the others, and chased after them.
I sighed. Stepped forward. Scooped the nearest bear up. One was gray, one black, one brown. Rough stitching. Cotton-stuffed. Cheap, borderline tragic.
But the eyes? The eyes were shiny. Glassy. Catching the flickering stairwell light in a weird way.
He rushed back up, red-faced. "Thank you, thank you, sir!"
"It's nothing. Really."
He had these huge, round eyes. Dark. Hopeful. Eager. Too much life for someone who probably spent all day baking in the sun.
"I'm Alan Linden! Live on the fourth floor! With Tom! He's my best friend!" He grinned, holding the bears like treasure.
I blinked. Nodded. "Feron. Feron Mornez. Third floor."
His eyes lit up. "We're neighbors! Awesome! You should come over sometime. I make good stuff, promise!"
"Looking forward to it, Alan."
That seemed to make his whole day.
I left him behind and resumed my mission.
Two blocks away, I found the barber shop. Sign was crooked. Light inside flickered like it had something to say.
The girl inside greeted me like I was royalty.
"Good evening and welcome!"
Her name was Trisha. She had a braid and smelled like mint.
"Evening," I muttered.
"Want a haircut?"
"Yes."
She led me to a basin. Pointed.
I hesitated.
Then took off my hat.
She snorted. Tried to cover her mouth but failed. Her eyes crinkled.
"Sorry."
I said nothing.
Let her wash. Let her cut. Didn't speak a word.
Thirty minutes later, I left. Hat in hand.
Hair? Gone. Just a short, bristly buzz.
Not attractive. But less awful.
It cost 12 copper Narcs. More than fruit. That's why the old me never came here.
But this new me? This new, slightly cleaner me?
Maybe I'd figure this mystery out.
Maybe I wouldn't.
But at least I'd look slightly less like a raccoon that lost a fight with a broom.