The city never sleeps. Not because it’s alive, but because it’s too tired to lie down. The streets are empty this late, save for the flicker of neon signs and the occasional car engine that hums like a dying heartbeat. The rain’s been falling for hours now, thin streams of water tracing dirty patterns on the sidewalk, reflecting the streetlights like a broken mirror.

  Jack Embers stood under the awning of a corner store, watching the lights in the alley across the street. A couple of kids were ducking behind dumpsters, the flash of a lighter bright in the dark. He wasn’t concerned. The city bred its own problems, and he had a different kind of mess to clean up.

  “Jack,” a voice called from behind. It was Detective Monica Hale, a seasoned cop with a worn face and tired eyes. Her uniform was damp, a single drop of water clinging to the tip of her nose like a reluctant tear. She didn’t bother with pleasantries. She never did.

  “Monica,” Jack replied, pushing off the wall. His trench coat barely brushed the wet pavement as he moved toward her.

  “You still working?” she asked, glancing at the crumpled cigarette between his fingers. She wasn’t asking because she cared, but because she knew he wouldn’t stop until the case was done, even if it killed him.

  “Always,” Jack muttered. “What’s the deal?”

  She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she glanced around the street, checking for any unwanted eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was low, almost conspiratorial.

  “Got a missing person,” Monica said. “I need someone who can, you know, dig deeper. Someone who doesn’t just follow the paperwork.”

  Jack flicked the cigarette to the ground and stepped on it. His eyes narrowed. He’d heard that line before. This wasn’t just a missing person. It never was.

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  “Who?”

  She handed him a manila folder, the kind of file that wasn’t meant to be seen by the public. Jack opened it slowly, his fingers brushing against the thin paper. The photo inside was grainy, a poor-quality snapshot of a man in his mid-thirties with a scruffy beard and a crooked smile. His eyes stared out, vacant. There was something unsettling about them, as if he wasn’t looking at the camera, but through it.

  “Henry Grayson,” Monica said. “Last seen two days ago. But here’s the thing... no one’s ever heard of him.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow. “You sure? This is a missing persons case. People disappear all the time.”

  “Not like this,” Monica replied. “I checked. No birth records, no school history, no work history, no social media, not even an old address. Nothing. It’s like he doesn’t exist.”

  Jack’s fingers gripped the edge of the folder harder, his brow furrowing as he studied the photo again. There was something off about the whole situation. A man with no history, no trace, and a face that stared like it was waiting for someone to notice.

  Jack let the folder fall closed and tucked it under his arm. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll take a look. Where do I start?”

  Monica hesitated for a moment, then pulled out a small, crumpled slip of paper from her pocket. She handed it to him. “Here. He was last seen at a warehouse down on East 42nd. A deadbeat bar owner said he saw him walking out late at night... and that’s the last anyone’s seen.”

  Jack didn’t need to be told twice. His coat fluttered behind him as he turned toward the street, already planning his route. “I’ll check it out.”

  Monica watched him walk away, her lips pressed together in a thin line. She didn’t say anything, she knew better than to stop him. He was a problem solver, but not in the way anyone wanted.

  Jack’s footsteps echoed against the wet pavement as he moved toward the alley, the distant hum of traffic blending with the rain. He lit another cigarette and took a long drag, exhaling slowly. He didn’t believe in fate, but sometimes the city just felt wrong, like it had a story to tell that it was too scared to finish.

  The warehouse was a ten-minute walk from the station. Jack didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. He had all the time in the world, and he could already feel the pull of something strange waiting for him there.

  He reached the old building, an abandoned concrete shell that looked like it had been forgotten long ago. The windows were boarded up, and the door hung crookedly on its hinges. There was no sign of life, no sound except the constant drip of water from the eaves.

  Jack pushed the door open, stepping into the darkness.