The night dragged the city's breath out long like railway tracks. The heartbeat of machinery pulsed through the floor, and neon lights bled like blood across the dusty windowpanes. The clock in the detective agency had long since passed midnight, but Eron Grey was still scanning the documents on his desk.

His coffee had turned a cold, ashen grey, and the radio leaned against the wall, flickering with faint static. Within that noise, something occasionally mixed in—something that sounded like a human voice.

"...Signal... weak—"

Grey looked up to glare at the radio, then resumed moving his pen. The ghost always spoke at this hour. But today, it wasn't the ghost.

Knock, knock. The sound of someone at the door tore through the darkness. It was rare for anyone to knock on the agency door this late at night. Grey stopped reaching for a cigarette and listened intently. Outside, raindrops scattered, and the sound of distant engines faded. A second, more cautious knock followed. He let out a low sigh and stood up.

As he turned the old doorknob, a cold wind made the indoor lights flicker. Outside stood someone carrying their own story—perhaps a mercenary, a reporter, or simply someone who had lost their way.