Careful steps on the sidewalk pavement echoed down the busy street, alive with the steady thrum of car engines and chatty, busy people.
It was a sweltering, Saturday evening, and as one of the top Sleuths in the city, you’d been assigned a riveting case involving the kidnapping of a top businessman’s daughter. No biggie, You thought to yourself, feet shuffling on the cement. It’s not like if I can’t solve this my career will be over. No way.
Except, you know, if you couldn’t find her kidnappers and bring her back home safe and sound you were pretty much fucked. Yeah. That was something you wanted to think about for sure. Definitely.
You retrieve a worn carton of cigarettes from your coat pocket, slipping one out of the package and igniting it with an equally worn lighter. Tilting your not so fancy, trusty white hat to reflect the rays of oncoming traffic, it’s nearly blown off your head from a gust of wind that seems to come from an alleyway behind you.
That… was pretty odd. Not like anything you’d experienced; for a while, anyway. You had a bad habit of being around when the strangest of shit went down sometimes, and your weird shit senses were tingling like none other.
Casually striding down the alleyway, you broke into a sprint once you figured you were out of the public eye, nearly tripping over a few sacks of garbage and a kid.
With how quickly you freeze at the thought, you nearly fall forward.
You twist around immediately, head jerking and cigarette flying. She looks totally out of it.
“You alright, kid?” You ask, kneeling and extending your hand to her.
You were preparing yourself to slowly comprehend what just happened to you when a sudden flash of white sprints past you and practically blows your skirt tightly against your legs. Although you couldn’t tell for sure, you were halfway positive a puzzled look was plastered onto your features.
Someone was asking if you were alright, but you couldn’t quite register it. It was sort of like one of those situations where you heard it, but you didn’t hear it. You didn’t grace the speaker with acknowledgement quite yet, but you finally understood his question. Were you alright?
You were pretty convinced you were knocked out and having a crazy dream. Or dead. One of the two. The thought makes you squint slightly.
“Oh, I’m fine!” you finally respond, looking slowly towards the only other individual in this nasty alleyway, “I’m just a lit….tle….lost…”
Your sentence practically breaks up the moment you notice who it was that was talking to you. Your voice was still enunciating the ‘s’ in ‘lost’ when it sunk in.
This was Problem Sleuth.
The Problem Sleuth.
The once-believed-to-be-fictional detective you idolized since the first comic adventure of him came out. The hardboiled, gun-but-also-a-key-slinging, getting-stuck-in-his-office-because-he-had-a-bust-of-Ben-Stiller-for-some-reason-blocking-his-door Problem Sleuth. Your heart decided to cut it quits for a second there, and you were confident you were going to pass out.
Obviously you’re dead. It’s the only possible explanation. You are having a fantastic afterlife experience.
Oh, you hope it never ends.
You force yourself to stop gawking at him enough to notice his hand was sticking out towards you. Not entirely sure what this gesture was meant to mean, you dumbly take his hand and shake it. Instead of a look of awe, you take in a deep breath through your nose and knit your eyebrows as your lips purse. Gotta look more professional.
It isn’t working.



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