The rain blurred the edges of the streetlights, their dim halos casting fractured reflections onto the slick asphalt. Ethan Drake's compact sedan coasted through the empty industrial district like a shadow with purpose. Inside, the rhythmic thrum of the wipers kept time with his thoughts, steady but sharp. His gray eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead, though his mind ran scenarios in every direction.
Chicago never sleeps, but it sure knows how to play dead when it wants to, he thought, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.
The Rusted Nail Tavern emerged from the mist, its flickering neon sign buzzing faintly, casting a broken red hue over the cracked lot. Peeling paint clung desperately to the sides of the building. It was the kind of place that knew how to keep secrets—mostly because everyone inside had something to hide.
Ethan cut the engine, stepping out into the drizzle. The damp air pressed against him like an unwelcome guest. He adjusted his jacket, scanning the lot. An old truck hunched near the side entrance, its rusted frame blending with the gloom.
The tavern door groaned in protest as he stepped inside. Smoke and the faint tang of spilled whiskey greeted him. A low hum of conversation barely rose above the jukebox's melancholy tune. Ethan's boots thudded softly on the worn floorboards as he surveyed the room. Regulars hunched over their drinks, faces etched with stories no one wanted to hear.
The bartender glanced up, his tired eyes betraying nothing. Ethan leaned against the counter, his voice barely rising above the ambient noise.
"Looking for Toby."
A slight tilt of the bartender's head pointed to the shadowed booths at the far end. Ethan slid a folded bill across the counter, his calm demeanor hiding the quick pulse of anticipation.
"For the trouble."
The bartender pocketed the cash without a word.
In the corner booth, Toby Rourke nursed a glass of whiskey, his cigarette a dying ember in the ashtray. His hazel eyes flicked up as Ethan approached, a grin tugging at his lips.
"Didn't think you'd show," Toby said, voice tinged with mock surprise.
Ethan slid into the seat opposite, his movements deliberate. "You called me."
Toby's chuckle was dry, more habit than humor. He took a slow drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out. "Victor Alderidge. Dead. Supposed heart attack. Bet you don't buy it."
Ethan's jaw tightened, but his tone remained even. "You know something I don't."
Toby leaned back, his crooked smile widening. "Gwen Alderidge came to you, didn't she? Stubborn streak. Just like her old man."
Ethan's silence was answer enough. Toby exhaled sharply, his grin fading. He leaned forward, his voice dropping.
"You shouldn't have taken it, Drake. The Alderidge name carries weight—too much for someone like you."
Ethan's gray eyes locked onto Toby's, unwavering. "I can handle weight. What do you know?"
Toby glanced around the room, his streetwise caution showing. Satisfied no one was listening, he leaned in closer.
"Rumor is he was murdered. Poison, maybe. And there's a girl—Clara. Supposed witness. Problem is, she doesn't remember a damn thing."
Ethan's gaze darkened, his voice sharpening. "If she's alive, someone knows she is."
Toby nodded, his smirk faint but wary. "Oh, she's alive. And if you're smart, you'll let her stay that way. But I know you, Ethan. You're not here to listen to warnings."
Reaching into his jacket, Toby pulled out a folded piece of paper, sliding it across the table. Ethan unfolded it, his eyes scanning the hastily scrawled address.
"That's where she's holed up," Toby said, leaning back with a shrug. "Two grand for the lead."
Ethan pulled a bundle of cash from his jacket, counting it with methodical precision before sliding it across the table. Toby snatched it up, tucking it away with a grunt.
"You're walking into a minefield, Drake," Toby muttered. "Alderidge wasn't just a composer. He had ties. Dangerous ones."
Ethan stood, slipping the paper into his pocket. "You're full of advice tonight."
Toby's smirk returned, this time laced with weariness. "I'm full of whiskey. Makes me talkative."
Without another word, Ethan turned and walked away, his boots echoing softly against the floor. Behind him, Toby shook his head, muttering under his breath.
"You're gonna get yourself killed."
Outside, the rain had thickened, a relentless curtain of gray. Ethan climbed back into his car, the address still clutched in his hand. He stared at it, his expression unreadable.
Clara. Whoever you are, you've got answers. And if someone's watching you, I'll be watching them.
The sedan pulled out of the lot, its taillights vanishing into the rain. Behind him, the Rusted Nail stood like a ghost in the storm, its flickering sign buzzing into the void.