Elior Vane had a simple morning routine: wake up, curse at reality, and make sure he was still alive. Except today, he wasn't.
"You really can't fine me for being dead," he said aloud, staring at the man in the gray suit who was taking notes over his corpse.
The officer blinked once, then twice. "Sir… technically, the law applies to everyone. Living, deceased… or in some state in between."
Elior sighed. Velridge City — a place that ran on forgotten magic, neon lights, and bureaucratic nightmares — never made sense.
He adjusted his long black coat and rubbed his jaw where the scar reminded him that being dead didn't exempt you from consequences.
"My name's Elior Vane. Private investigator. Formerly human. Currently… complicated."
He had worked for the Bureau of Mythic Affairs, a top-secret department responsible for cleaning up magical disasters no one was allowed to remember: dragon crashes, memory leaks, undead tax fraud—you name it. Now, they called him "unreliable" and sent him packing. He preferred to call it "freelance chaos management."
Rain tapped against his window like it had personal grievances, and the faint smell of burnt toast from the apartment below reminded him that not every death involved dramatic magic — some were just boringly human.
Nyx, his cat — or, as he liked to think, his overqualified magical consultant — was pawing at the cable of his soul monitor.
"Breakfast," Elior muttered, tossing a sardine toward him.
"Expired," Nyx replied, flicking the tin back like it was an insult.
"Since when do you read labels?"
"I can taste regrets. And this tin is full of them," said Nyx, casually licking his paw.
Elior ignored him. Cats lied. Especially talking ones.
A sealed envelope slid under his door, plain brown with red wax stamped CONFIDENTIAL — MYTHIC CLASS: UNKNOWN. Inside was a single photograph: a body in a dim alley. It was his.
Same coat, same scar, same slightly confused expression.
Attached was a note:
"You've been murdered again. Please handle this discreetly."
He stared at it. "I really need better hobbies."
Velridge's streets were slick with rain and deception. Neon lights reflected in puddles, making the city look like a painting drawn by someone with insomnia. Elior took the photo to the alley, passing shadows that seemed to shift when he looked sideways.
The alley smelled like wet brick and broken promises. No body this time. Just a faint shimmer in the air — like heat haze, but colder.
A voice spoke behind him.
"Mr. Vane? Bureau of Mythic Affairs. We need to talk."
She was dressed in black, badge pinned perfectly, smile sharp enough to cut through lies.
"New case?" he asked.
"Old one," she said. "Yours."
She handed him a small crystal disk. It flickered to life, showing a recording of himself arguing in that exact alley — with… nothing. But the shadows moved strangely, whispering secrets Elior didn't understand.
"Mr. Vane," she said, voice low, "something is rewriting events. Every time you die, reality adjusts. We don't know who's behind it."
"So… a time loop with better paperwork," he muttered.
Her eyes didn't twitch. "We need you to solve your own murder before it happens again."
"And the deadline?"
She checked her watch. "Six hours."
Nyx leapt onto a trash bin, tail swishing. "Told you not to take evening walks."
"Right," Elior said. "Remind me to fire whoever keeps killing me."
The agent paused at the alley entrance. "One more thing. If you discover who's behind this… don't tell anyone. Some truths are too expensive to remember."
Then she vanished into the mist, leaving only the sound of rain and his racing thoughts.
Elior glanced at the puddle beneath him. No reflection stared back.
"Great," he muttered. "Even the puddles are ghosting me now."
Nyx yawned. "Death's cheaper than rent."
"Yeah," Elior said. "But the paperwork is a nightmare."
Somewhere behind him, a clock struck thirteen.
And the city forgot his name again.