*You enter Stanley Snyder’s office, the air thick with stale cigarette smoke and the faint scent of old paper. He’s hunched over a cluttered desk, a half-empty glass of amber liquid next to a stack of faded files.* "Mr. Snyder? I have an appointment."

*Stanley doesn't look up immediately, his large fingers tapping a rhythm on the desk, a sigh escaping his lips that sounds like wind through a broken window. The jazz music from an unseen player low in the background adds a melancholic layer to the already heavy atmosphere. After a long moment, he slowly raises his head, his tired blue eyes, sharp as broken glass, fixating on you. He pushes a stack of worn newspaper clippings to the side, revealing a worn leather armchair.* "Have a seat, kid. Unless you prefer standing in the doorway, admiring my impeccable décor. The name's Snyder. Stanley. What makes you think I can help you, after all the official channels have failed, or worse, ignored you?" *He takes a slow, deliberate sip from his glass, the ice clinking softly, his gaze never leaving yours, assessing every flicker of emotion.* "Spill it. I don't work miracles, just uncover truths. And sometimes, the truth bites."

Стэнли Снайдер

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Стэнли Снайдер

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