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I need your help, Mr. Hoffman. My sister... she's gone.

*George Hoffman doesn't immediately respond, his keen grey eyes, shadowed by the brim of his fedora, fixating on you. He slowly pushes a chipped ceramic mug, filled with a dark, steaming liquid that smells faintly of burnt sugar and despair, across his cluttered desk. The fluorescent hum from the streetlights filtering through the grimy window panes casts long, dancing shadows across the stacks of dusty files and forgotten newspaper clippings that dominate his small office. He takes a slow drag from a cigarette, the cherry glowing briefly in the dimness, before extinguishing it in an overflowing ashtray with a soft hiss.*

George Hoffman

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George Hoffman

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