New Amsterdam was prettiest after it rained, in that fleeting moment when the riftsoot washed away, and the city’s muted colors fought their way through the monochromatic grime. Neon signs flickered like failing memories, casting fractured reflections on the rain-slick streets. The soot would reclaim its place soon enough, clinging to every surface like a toxic second skin, but for now, the city sighed, alive, if only for a moment.

  My head was heavy and foggy as I spotted Mel’s Diner up ahead. It sat on the edge of an older part of town, its flickering neon sign stubbornly advertising burgers and shakes in a world that barely remembered either. The mostly empty parking lot brought a sense of relief. No long wait, and less chance of bumping into old acquaintances. It was quiet as I approached the entrance, the only sounds being the clacking of my footsteps and the rustle of the newspaper tucked under my arm.

  Time to grab a bite and maybe a slice of normalcy, if only for a moment.

  A scruffy dog with matted fur and a snaggletooth poking out of its jowls trotted out from a nearby alley. It startled me just enough that I almost tripped over him.

  “Damn it, Sarge,” I muttered.

  His fur was a patchwork of dirty white and brown, and one ear stood while the other flopped down. His mismatched eyes—one brown, one a faintly glowing blue—met mine with a mix of curiosity and warning. He sniffed the air, then seemed to recognize my scent and decided I was still a friend, which brought me a small comfort. His tail wagged furiously, but his body was tense, as if he was deciding whether to trust me or bolt.

  Sarge, a mutt with a heart as big as the city, was the unofficial guardian of this block. He was a stray who’d earned his keep through loyalty and a fierce, if often misdirected, protective instinct. As I moved to step past him, he tugged on my pant leg with surprising strength, trying to pull me back from the diner. I knelt down, ruffling the fur behind his ears, and he leaned into my hand, whining softly.

  “Not now, boy,” I said, giving him a gentle pat on the head. “I can’t play right now.”

  He hesitated, then relented, sitting back on his haunches with a resigned huff. I straightened up and pushed open the diner door, the familiar clang of the door chimes ringing out as I entered.

  Inside, the chrome counters were scratched, the jukebox played relics from a dead century, and the red vinyl booths were patched with duct tape. It was a museum piece in a city obsessed with upgrades.

  I slid onto a stool at the counter, nodding to the waitress, Sally. She was a staple here, with a beehive hairdo and a pen tucked behind her ear.

  “The usual, Jack?” Sally asked with a smirk.

  “Extra sauce this time.”

  She nodded and poured me a coffee. Black. I took a sip and frowned. Nothing. Tasted of nothing.

  I sat, lost in thought. The diner was a vibrant slice of Americana: red vinyl booths, chrome stools, and the low buzz of a jukebox in the corner playing some forgotten tune. The usual smell of frying bacon and brewing coffee fell dead on my senses, like a memory I couldn’t quite grasp. My fingers absently played with the key in my hand, tracing its intricate design. I didn’t recall taking it out of my pocket.

  “How did you get all the way out here?” I whispered to it, my eyes locked on the silver filigree.

  Sally interrupted my thoughts by setting a cheeseburger with extra sauce and fries in front of me. “That’s a pretty little thing,” she remarked, her eyes lingering on the key. Without thinking, I carefully tucked it away in my pocket and took a sip of my flavorless coffee.

  “It’s just an old souvenir,” I lied, my tone flat. I took a bite of the burger, chewing mechanically. The taste was a distant echo, barely there.

  The door clanged open again, and two unfamiliar men strode in. They immediately caught my attention with their slick suits and polished shoes.

  I shook off the unease settling in my stomach and pushed any thoughts of Aylin and her cursed music box to the back of my mind.

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  I did my part. I checked on it, like I said I would. I could drop it here.

  I heard Sarge bark outside.

  As I lifted my mug to my lips, I felt the cold, hard barrel of a gun press against my back. The sudden pressure jolted me, and I froze. A moment later, a danger notification appeared in the corner of my vision. Thanks for the warning, I thought to my System, rolling my eyes.

  A low, nasal voice growled, “Hand over your cred-discs.”

  I sighed, tracing my finger over the table’s cracked chrome edge. “Not the best icebreaker,” I said, keeping my tone casual. “How about we take this outside before you shoot something you can’t afford to replace?”

  The hum of the gun told me it wasn’t a cheap slug thrower—this guy had a plasma piece, military grade. My cybernetic nerves tingled in anticipation.

  The click of the safety disengaging and I moved. Coffee spilled across the table as I ducked low, the first shot hissing past, leaving the scent of scorched ozone. Adrenaline tore through me like shrapnel—this wasn’t a robbery. It was a hit.

  Instinct took over. I dove to the side as a searing pulse of energy ripped through the air, the plasma bolt hissing as it slammed into the countertop where I’d been standing a heartbeat ago, leaving a smoking crater in the chrome.

  Without hesitation, I grabbed the mug of coffee, its steam curling like ghostly tendrils, and flung it at the assailant’s face. The scalding liquid splashed across his visor, eliciting a guttural howl as it hissed and sizzled against the heat-reactive plating.

  Taking full advantage of his momentary distraction, I surged forward, my boot slamming into his leg. The synthetic joint buckled with a satisfying CRACK, sending him sprawling to the floor. His plasma gun clattered away, its faint hum cutting off as I kicked it out of reach, watching it skid across the diner tiles and settle under the jukebox.

  The smell of burned ozone lingered in the air as I loomed over him, adrenaline still thrumming in my veins. “That all you got?” I growled.

  The man’s voice was gritty, tinted with a thick New Amsterdam accent. I had him pinned, my fist clenched around his shirt collar. “You shouldn’t be snooping where you don’t belong,” he snarled.

  “Yeah, well, I’m a nosy bastard,” I replied, tightening my grip. “What the hell is going on here?”

  Before he could answer, the deafening sound of gunfire erupted in the small room. I dove for cover beneath the nearest table, the acrid smell of ozone and nightstone filling my nostrils. As the shots rang out, I quickly realized they weren’t aimed at me.

  Peeking out from my hiding place, I saw my attacker lying lifeless on the ground, two bullet holes marring his chest.

  Who the hell were these people?

  Silently, I slipped out the back door, sticking to alleyways and side streets to avoid any unwanted attention. A quick cab ride dropped me off a few blocks from my destination—Murphy’s, home. I approached with the same practiced caution, entering through the back in case anyone was watching the front.

  “Murphy!” I called out, but there was no answer. He was either dead asleep or out prepping for the night’s crowd. I hoped it was the latter as I climbed the stairs to my room on the second floor.

  It was time for Frank.

  Dread coiled in my gut as I knelt, prying up a loose floorboard to reveal a small box hidden beneath. Dust and dirt clung to the surface, mingling with memories I’d spent years trying to bury. With a steadying breath, I slid the lid open. Inside this makeshift coffin of my past lay my old private investigator’s permit and a faded black trench coat.

  But this coat wasn’t just fabric—it was a relic from a war that left scars too deep to see, a forgotten battle no one spoke of anymore. A withered old woman in some backwater town insisted I take it after I saved her granddaughter’s life. That night was hell—demons tearing through the village like wolves among sheep, the sky a tapestry of fire and blood. Screams filled the air, chaos ruled, and I fought like a man drowning, grasping at anything to stay afloat.

  I found the girl pinned under rubble, a demon closing in fast. One shot, one kill. Her eyes, wide with terror, softened into gratitude. Her grandmother, tears streaming down her face, pressed the jacket into my hands. “Protect you,” she whispered in broken English. “Keep you safe.”

  What she didn’t say was the price. This jacket wasn’t just leather—it was Frank, a demon trapped in his own skin, bound to this coat, and a constant, unwelcome presence in my life. I swore I’d never use him again. But here I was, staring down the barrel of necessity. There was no one else who could help, no one else who spoke the twisted language of the Abyss like Frank.

  I hated that it had come to this, that I had to rely on him, knowing full well the danger he brought. But the truth was, without Frank, I was flying blind—and in this world, that was a quick way to end up dead.

  With a weary breath, I reached into the box and pulled out the coat. The moment it was in my hands, the familiar, unsettling connection snapped into place. Frank’s presence stirred in the back of my mind, as intrusive and persistent as ever. I tried to steel myself against it, but deep down, I knew I was out of options. I needed him. And that’s what I hated the most.

  With another sigh, I pulled myself back to the present and slipped the jacket on. The reality of it settled on my shoulders like a dark cloud. Shadows clung to me, and my hands tingled with the pulse of dark energy, like I was holding a live wire.

  A familiar voice slithered into my mind, smooth and smug, like a jazz tune you couldn’t shake in a smoky, forgotten bar.

  Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. The illustrious detective graces us with his presence. Here to take credit for my handiwork again, Jack?

  “Shut it, Frank.”