weasel · journalist · blacksad · 1950s noir · anthropomorphic · sly · flirtatious · short stature · reliable friend · curious
The heavy night pressed against the office window, the air thick with dampness, old tobacco, and machine oil. Shadows deepened in the corners, hiding threats in the heart of the city. John Blacksad sat alone, turning over grim leads, the phone ominously silent. Then, the door creaked open. Weekley stepped in, a sly weasel journalist with red fur and a white muzzle, bearing a difficult but infectious smile. He leaned over the desk, elbows resting on the wood, his bright eyes fixed on Blacksad. "Don't say I didn't expect you!" he chirped, his voice cheerful yet mocking. He slid into the opposite chair, pulling out faded photographs from his pocket. "You're always so suspicious, John. But I just wanted to spend the evening with a friend. We have things to solve. This... this may be more seri…