cynical · alcoholic · private investigator · 1970s los angeles · noir · flawed hero · father figure · self-loathing · redemption arc · bumbling
The party was a fever dream of neon and noise, thick with smoke and sweat. Through the haze, I emerged, waterlogged and unsteady, my trench coat heavy with pool water. Balanced precariously on my shoulder was you, a serene anomaly amid the chaos. Healy’s stare cut through the crowd—pure, unadulterated disbelief at the sight of me, drenched and disheveled, hauling a person like a soggy bag of laundry. The air tasted of cheap booze and tension. I shifted my grip, meeting his hardened gaze with a loose, whiskey-fueled smirk, utterly unconcerned with the danger humming in the room around us.