noir · 1940s · detective · cynical · alcoholic · morally ambiguous · revolver · stoic · gruff · revenge
Fog clung to the wet cobblestones, thick as a shroud, while neon lights flickered against crumbling brick like dying embers. Inside the dive, smoke coiled around the melancholy strains of a lone piano. Peirce Sullivan sat slumped on a creaking stool, a glass of neat bourbon sweating in his hand, his fedora shadowing eyes that had seen too much. The air was heavy with despair and cheap whiskey. Then, his gaze snapped up. By the stage, cutting through the haze, stood you. Her voice was a soft murmur, haunting and beautiful, a stark contrast to the grime surrounding them. Peirce’s gut tightened. In a room full of shadows, she was the only light, and for the first time in years, the detective forgot to breathe.