Wayne distinctly remembered the door to the detective agency was locked tight, the bolt secured from the inside.
London City had its share of urban legends—subway stations leading to hell, the headless rider wandering the fog, man-eating alleys, underground tombs, and so on.
These shocking rumors only came to life at night, when the city shared its space with its more... mysterious inhabitants. By day, the streets belonged to the regular folks; by night, they belonged to the legends. The two coexisted peacefully, each respecting the other's domain. But if someone dared to break the unspoken rule and trespass into forbidden territory, they would vanish overnight, never to be seen again.
Dockworkers often shared tales of these myths, spinning stories with such vividness, you'd think they'd seen it all firsthand.
For the past three months, Wayne had heard his fair share of such stories. Since he hadn't experienced them for himself, he dismissed them as fanciful nonsense. But because there was no harm in indulging them and he wasn't getting paid for anything else, he figured he might as well believe in some of them.
In fact, he'd begun to follow the local custom. Every night, he'd lock the doors to his agency tight, just to avoid any unwelcome run-ins with whatever legends might come knocking.
After all, it was free entertainment.
Knock, knock, knock—
This time, the knock was much more urgent, the forceful rapping echoing in the quiet office. Whoever it was seemed determined not to leave until Wayne answered.
Wayne didn't budge. Instead, he silently grabbed a crowbar from the corner of his desk. The knocking stopped, and the door creaked open. Whoever was on the other side was already stepping in.
A figure in a black hooded cloak emerged, obscuring their face, the shadows cast by the overhead light only adding to the sense of pressure. Wayne's grip on the crowbar tightened, his palm growing sweaty.
He focused, studying the silhouette. While the hood concealed most of the figure's features, the way the cloak moved gave away the fact that the intruder was female.
A business deal?
"You must be the owner of this detective agency. I have some business to discuss," the figure said.
"Can it wait until tomorrow? We're closed for the night," Wayne responded, maintaining a neutral tone.
Her voice was melodic, but Wayne had no interest in engaging with someone who appeared so mysterious. There was something unsettling about her aura, and he didn't want to get involved in any unknown troubles.
The intruder didn't speak, but instead moved toward the desk, her gaze falling on the plate of potatoes scattered across it. A soft laugh escaped her, and then she casually dropped a thick stack of bills onto the desk.
The sight of Queen's heads on the notes immediately grabbed Wayne's attention. At least fifty one-hundred-pound bills—five thousand pounds in total—enough to sustain him for two years of hard work.
The Queen's money wasn't as strong as it used to be, thanks to the Great Depression and the looming threat of war. But to Wayne, this was still a fortune.
"Now, can we talk?" the woman asked.
"Please, take a seat," Wayne said, moving to sit behind his desk, placing the crowbar across his legs. His intuition told him that the crowbar wouldn't be of any real use, but it offered him a sense of comfort. At least he had something in hand while dealing with this mysterious guest.
The woman settled into the chair in front of him, giving Wayne a moment to observe her more closely. He could see the lower half of her face—her lips were perfectly shaped, her skin fair and smooth, almost pearl-like in its glow. She couldn't have been older than eighteen, maybe twenty at most.
At this age, with looks like that, and the nerve to show up at a man's door in the middle of the night, she had either an agenda or was truly fearless. Judging by the way she handled herself, Wayne was certain it was the former.
The way she casually flashed a small fortune on the desk only confirmed his suspicion.
The woman's silence was unsettling, so Wayne decided to break the ice. He smiled politely and asked, "Did you have dinner? How about some potatoes?"
"Tea," she replied coolly.
Wayne got up to make her tea, mentally chuckling. Who in this world had access to tea in such troubled times? But there was no time to dwell on that now. He returned with the tea and set it down in front of her.
The woman, seemingly unimpressed by the gesture, lifted the cup, inhaled its fragrance, but didn't drink. She set it back down without a word.
Wayne didn't let it phase him. Money was money. He had learned long ago not to complain when wealth was on the table.
"Miss, could you please tell me what kind of business you're here for?" Wayne asked, keeping his tone professional.
"I need a job, and you need an assistant," she said simply.
Wayne blinked in surprise. "I'm afraid you've got the wrong idea. As you can see, it's a small operation here. I can't afford—"
"I'll pay you to work here. I'll give you one thousand pounds a month as your assistant."
Wayne was taken aback. He stammered, unsure how to respond. "I—"
"If you don't want it, just say so."
Wayne recovered quickly. "Welcome aboard, Miss Assistant. You're hired."
Six thousand pounds in total now, with a generous upfront payment. Wayne didn't care about the ethical implications at this point. The money was too good to pass up. A second's hesitation could mean more days with nothing but potatoes to eat.
He extended his hand, but she didn't take it. Not bothered by the rejection, he gave himself a quick handshake. "Your resume and identification... Oh, never mind, I'll make it up myself. I'm Wayne, the owner and lead detective. What should I call you?"
"Veronica."
She introduced herself with a name that seemed fake, but the story she told next was even more dubious. She claimed to be from a distant land, a lifelong fan of detective novels, and dreamed of becoming a great detective. She wouldn't be staying long at the agency and wouldn't cause any trouble as long as Wayne didn't ask too many questions.
It was a half-hearted lie, but enough to satisfy Wayne. He could tell she had other motives—he just didn't know what those were yet. But given his current situation, he didn't have the luxury to ask questions.
"I'll need two rooms. I'll pay for them separately. Is that alright?" she asked.
"No problem," Wayne replied.
As the night wore on, Wayne marveled at the turn of events. He'd gone from struggling to make ends meet to suddenly finding himself with a wealthy benefactor. He quickly dismissed any suspicion. Wealth and beauty were a powerful combination, and Veronica had both.
Perhaps she wasn't a spy or a killer. Perhaps she was just a woman chasing a childhood dream of becoming a detective. Either way, Wayne wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
The ground floor would be his office. The second floor had his bedroom, an archive, a workspace, and a small storage area. The third floor had an empty room that no one used. He figured it wouldn't take much to clean it up for Veronica.
"Tonight, I'm moving in," Veronica said, glancing toward the stairs.
Wayne agreed to her terms, but as he went to the door to fetch her luggage, he was met with a sight that nearly made him choke.
The two front doors of the detective agency were wide open, and standing in the doorway was a giant of a man, at least six and a half feet tall, with broad shoulders and muscular arms. The man blocked the entrance, guarding three large black boxes. He was wearing nothing but a white pair of shorts and a sleeveless vest, the freezing London air doing nothing to dampen his powerful presence.
Wayne froze, staring at the man in disbelief. This wasn't the kind of company he was used to.
"Hello, I'm William. Let's be friends," the giant said with a grin, extending a massive hand.
Wayne hesitated but shook the man's hand, feeling a strange, unsettling chill spread up his spine. It wasn't the cold night air—it was something far more sinister.
William's bright golden hair was tied into pigtails, and his sleeveless shirt was blue and white striped. It was hard to shake the feeling that something wasn't right.
"Why are you still holding my hand?" Wayne thought, struggling to pull free.
Suddenly, a soft meow interrupted the awkward moment. It was a sleek black cat with golden eyes, perched atop one of the large boxes. The sight was so surreal that Wayne nearly forgot to breathe.
"Monica, lift her up," William said with a grin, hoisting the cat into the air.
Wayne watched in horror as the giant bounced up and down, laughing with joy. The image of him holding the cat above his head was enough to erase any illusion of normalcy from Wayne's mind.
Veronica stepped out from the office, eyeing the scene with obvious annoyance. "William, what are you doing? Put Monica down!" she ordered.
With a few swift movements, Veronica easily pried the cat away from William and gave him a sharp glare. "Your room's on the second floor. Now move your things up with Wayne. He'll be taking over your room."
William hesitated, clearly not pleased with the arrangement. "That's not right," he muttered, looking like a big bear caught in a net.
Veronica wasn't having any of it. "Shut up and do as I say."
As she walked away, she added with a grin, "Monica stays with me on the third floor. Cats and gentlemen don't mix."
Wayne couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. The rich and beautiful woman had arrived, and suddenly, the world of mysteries and money seemed far more complicated than he'd ever imagined.