The Lone Detective

By G.S. Hoppmann

The rain was relentless, pounding the city streets into a monochrome canvas of grey. The glow of a lone streetlamp flickered, casting an eerie light on the puddled asphalt. There, under the halo of dim light, stood a figure, cloaked in a tattered trench coat, collar turned up against the biting wind. His hat, pulled low over his brow, hid his eyes, but not the grim set of his jaw. He lit a cigarette, the flame from his lighter momentarily illuminating his rugged, unshaven face, then vanished, leaving only the burning ember glowing in the darkness.

Across the street, the neon sign of a dingy bar buzzed and sputtered, its red light bleeding into the night, casting a sinister hue over the wet pavement. The figure watched, unblinking, as shadows moved behind the fogged-up windows of the bar. He knew they were there — the corrupt, the lost, the desperate. This place, their haven, traded secrets like currency and brimmed with lies as common as the flowing liquor.

A car pulled up to the curb, its headlights cutting through the rain. The figure didn’t move, didn’t even flinch as the driver’s side door opened and a man stepped out. His sharp dressing contrasted the surrounding dilapidation, but his eyes, cold and calculating, matched the darkness of the night. They exchanged no words, a knowing look before the man disappeared into the bar, the door closing behind him with a thud that echoed through the empty streets.