The room smoldered with secrets. Shadows stretched long across the walls, their jagged edges cut by the solitary glow of a desk lamp. A single note from Miles Davis's trumpet hung in the air, the kind of sound that seeped into your bones and stayed there. Ethan Drake leaned over a battered notebook, pen scratching rhythmically as though trying to outpace the thoughts chasing him.
The knock shattered his focus like glass hitting concrete.
His hand froze mid-word, the pen hovering over the page. For a moment, he didn't move, letting the room settle back into a quiet that now felt too loud. The crackle of the vinyl on the turntable ticked like a warning.
Ethan's voice was a low murmur, meant for no one but himself. "Not exactly expecting company."
He slid his chair back with deliberate calm, the faint creak of the wood against his weight the only other sound. His fingers trailed along the edge of the desk until they found the collapsible baton. It expanded in his grip with a satisfying snap, a silent reassurance as he approached the door.
"Who is it?" His tone was flat, measured.
There was a pause—a hesitation that told Ethan more than words could have. Then a voice answered, trembling but determined. "It's… Gwen Alderidge. I need your help."
His brow furrowed, the name tugging at a memory he hadn't touched in years. He cracked the door open just enough to see her—a young woman in an oversized coat, her green eyes darting like a trapped animal's. Behind her, the hallway stretched into darkness, empty but somehow teeming with the unseen.
"Please," she said, her voice cracking at the edges. "I don't know who else to turn to."
Ethan's gaze swept over her: trembling hands clutching a worn leather bag, hair falling loose around a face pale with fear. Every detail added weight to the unspoken story hovering between them. After a beat, he stepped back, motioning her inside with a tilt of his head.
"Make it quick."
The door clicked shut behind her, locking the world out. Gwen stood awkwardly, her polished shoes scuffing against the worn hardwood floor. Her eyes roamed the room, landing on the corkboard crammed with photos, maps, and notes connected by red strings that weaved a chaotic web.
"You work like this?" she asked, her voice soft but tinged with something between curiosity and disbelief.
"Efficient, not pretty," Ethan replied, already leaning against his desk, arms crossed. The baton rested at his side, still within reach. He gestured to the couch without moving. "Sit."
She obeyed, perching on the edge like the cushions might swallow her whole. Her bag remained clutched in her lap, a lifeline she refused to let go.
"My grandfather," she began, her voice shaky. "Victor Alderidge. He's dead."
Ethan didn't flinch. He'd heard death announced too many times to react now. Instead, he waited, letting the silence pull more from her.
"The police said it was a heart attack," she continued, her words tumbling over each other. "But it doesn't make sense. He was healthy. Obsessively so. And…" Her grip tightened on the bag. "His study was ransacked."
"Ransacked?" Ethan echoed, his tone sharp enough to slice through her panic.
"They said it was a robbery gone wrong, but nothing valuable was taken. Just his journals. Everything he'd written about his work. Gone."
Ethan's gray eyes locked onto hers, piercing and unrelenting. He straightened, reaching for his own notebook. "Victor Alderidge. The composer?"
She blinked, startled. "You've heard of him?"
"Enough," he said, scribbling quick notes. "What was he working on?"
"A symphony," Gwen said, her voice softening with memory. "His magnum opus. He said it would change everything. But he was paranoid. Always thought someone was watching him. Following him."
"And now his work's gone." Ethan snapped the notebook shut. "Any enemies?"
Her hesitation betrayed her. "I… I don't know. He barely left the house. But he said his work was dangerous. He wouldn't even let me see it."
Ethan slipped his notebook into his jacket, his movements fluid and decisive. "Give me the address."
Gwen hesitated, her fingers knotting around the bag's strap. "Does that mean you'll help?"
"I'm curious," Ethan said, pulling his messenger bag from the chair. He slung it over his shoulder, already heading for the door. "Stay here."
"No, I—"
"Stay." His voice cut through her protest like a blade. "You'll only slow me down."
The door closed behind him, leaving her in the dimly lit room with the ghost of Miles Davis's haunting melody.
Ethan stepped into the night, his boots striking a rhythm against the cracked pavement. The city was alive around him—car horns blaring, a train clattering overhead, voices weaving through the chaos. He moved with purpose, his eyes sharp and unyielding, scanning every corner, every shadow.
The pieces of the puzzle churned in his mind. A paranoid genius, a missing symphony, and a death wrapped in unanswered questions. The air felt heavy, charged with something unseen but undeniable.
"Let's see what you were afraid of, Victor," Ethan murmured to himself as he melted into the night, the jazz from his apartment fading into the city's noise like a whisper lost to the wind.