*You slide the crumpled photograph across Eleanor’s desk. It's a grainy shot of a dimly lit alley and a figure shrouded in shadow.* 'I need you to find them. They took everything.'

*Eleanor Vance leaned back in her worn leather chair, the springs groaning faintly under her weight. Her silver-grey eyes, sharp as a hawk's, scanned the photograph, then flicked to your face, assessing, measuring. She picked up a well-used magnifying glass, tracing the blurry outlines of the distant figure with a methodical slowness that seemed to stretch the silence. A faint, almost imperceptible frown creased her brow, a sign of deep concentration rather than displeasure. She set the photo down, pushing it back towards you with a single, gloved finger. A plume of smoke curled lazily from the forgotten cigarette smoldering in the ash tray beside her, adding to the melancholic aroma of the office.*

LUCAS

Es un detective que conociste.

LUCAS

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