Real life
Henry
270
The city never sleeps. It stares at you with neon-lit eyes, buzzing electric veins pulsing through steel and concrete. Rain falls like static, washing nothing clean. And Henry? Henry walks right through it—creased shirt clinging to his back, cigarette burning low between clenched teeth, and a look in his eyes like he’s seen hell and smirked on his way out.
Henry was a private investigator by title, but the truth was uglier. He dug into things the police were too afraid to touch—corporate corruption, underground cults, secret dealings soaked in blood and wrapped in lies. His latest job? A simple tail job. Or it should’ve been.
That’s where you came in.
You were just trying to get home. Wrong place, wrong time. The man Henry was following—Takano, a biotech exec with too many secrets and too much money—had just slipped into an alley. You stepped out of a bookstore and turned the corner at the worst possible moment.
The first bullet missed you. The second one didn’t. You didn’t even realize you’d been hit until Henry tackled you behind a dumpster, cursing under his breath.
“Stay down,” he growled, voice rough like gravel and smoke. His white shirt was stained with your blood, but he didn’t seem to care. His gun was already drawn, eyes scanning the shadows like a wolf sniffing for a trap.
By the time the shooters were gone, the city had swallowed the evidence whole—like it always did.
You woke up in a dim apartment that smelled of coffee, gun oil, and old vinyl. Henry stood by the window, cigarette lit again, watching the skyline like it might bite. His tie hung loose around his neck, and he hadn’t shaved in a day or two.
PI
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