Rain pattered against the grimy window of Jack Carrigan’s office, each drop sliding down the glass like a tear that had lost its way. Inside, the single-room office reeked of stale cigarettes and yesterday’s whiskey. The ceiling fan creaked in slow, uneven circles, each rotation a metronome to the life Jack was living — a life suspended between yesterday’s regrets and tomorrow’s promises that would never come.

  Jack sat hunched over his cluttered desk, a cheap glass of bourbon cradled between his calloused hands. The amber liquid caught the weak, flickering light of the single lamp, casting ripples of gold over a stack of unpaid bills, a half-burned cigarette, and a crumpled photograph.

  It was a photograph of Vincent Crowe. The man who once stood beside Jack as his partner. The man who now haunted his every waking hour.

  Jack’s thumb ran over the worn edge of the picture, feeling the crease where he’d folded it, hiding Crowe’s eyes. Eyes that once held a glimmer of camaraderie but now only stared back as hollow as the corpses they’d once found together.

  Outside, the rain deepened. Gravenhurst was drowning. The alleys below filled with murky puddles, the kind that swallowed cigarette butts and secrets alike. Jack closed his eyes and leaned back, the chair groaning beneath his weight.

  His body ached. The scar on his left cheek throbbed like a heartbeat out of sync, a burning reminder of that night five years ago — the night Crowe branded him like livestock. The sigil etched into his flesh still felt raw sometimes, as if Crowe’s fingers were still there, pressing, burning, searing the memory into his skin.

  Jack swallowed, the bourbon burning its way down. He felt it settle like a lead weight in his gut. There was no getting rid of it — not the alcohol, not the scar, and certainly not the ghost of Vincent Crowe.

  A car honked somewhere below, a shrill cry that echoed through the narrow streets of Gravenhurst. Jack’s eyes flicked to the window. Neon lights from the bar below bled into the rain, staining the sidewalk with hues of sickly green and crimson. The kind of colors that belonged to blood and bile.

  “Jack!”

  The voice echoed from downstairs. Rocco. The bar owner and the closest thing Jack had to a friend these days.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Jack, you there? Got another one for ya!”

  Jack groaned, pushing himself up from the chair. The room swayed. His head pounded with the dull, persistent ache of too many sleepless nights and too many bottles drained. He grabbed his trench coat, the one that still smelled faintly of rain and gunpowder, and shrugged it on.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” he muttered, his voice rough, gravel grinding against gravel.

  The stairs creaked as he descended, each step a hollow thud in the silence of the night. The bar was mostly empty — just a couple of drunks slouched over their drinks, eyes glazed and distant. Rocco stood behind the counter, wiping a glass with a rag that had seen better days.

  “You look like shit,” Rocco said, sliding the glass toward him. “You sleep at all?”

  Jack ignored the question. “You said you had something?”

  Rocco nodded, jerking his chin toward the end of the bar. A woman sat there, her back straight and stiff, fingers nervously drumming against the counter. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, and her eyes — dark, wide, and haunted — stared blankly ahead.

  Jack’s jaw clenched. Another one. Another desperate soul looking for answers he couldn’t give.

  “Name’s Marie,” Rocco said, lowering his voice. “Her brother’s been missing for two weeks. Cops say he skipped town, but she doesn’t buy it.”

  Jack took a deep breath, the scent of bourbon and stale beer thick in the air. His eyes drifted to the woman again. Her fingers trembled as they toyed with a silver locket around her neck, the kind people wore to keep memories close, to keep them from slipping away.

  Jack ran a hand over his face, feeling the stubble, the lines, the scar that never quite healed. Another missing person. Another set of eyes staring at him, begging him to do what the cops wouldn’t — or couldn’t.

  His gaze dropped to the bourbon in his hand, the glass catching the light, reflecting fractured shards of his own face.

  Five years ago, he would’ve jumped at a case like this. He would’ve pounded the pavement, torn the city apart, chased every lead until his shoes wore thin and his knuckles bled. But now? Now he felt like a ghost — a man whose best days were buried under a pile of burnt case files and empty bottles.

  “Jack,” Rocco said, his voice softer now. “You gonna take it or not?”

  Jack swallowed, the bourbon bitter on his tongue. He looked back at Marie, her eyes glassy and rimmed with dark circles. Behind her, the rain beat against the window, a relentless downpour that wouldn’t let up.

  A flash of lightning lit up the room, and for a split second, Jack saw Crowe’s face reflected in the glass, staring back at him, smiling that crooked, haunting smile.

  Jack blinked, and the image was gone. Just rain and neon now. Just the city swallowing itself whole.

  “Yeah,” he said finally, setting the glass down with a heavy clink. “Yeah, I’ll take it.”

  Marie’s eyes met his, and for a moment, Jack saw something he hadn’t seen in a long time.

  Hope.

  But he knew better. In Gravenhurst, hope was a poison. And Jack Carrigan? He was the antidote that never worked.