The apartment building was a tired, three-story structure of faded red brick, holding nine units that seemed to hold their breath in the afternoon heat. We conducted a door-to-door canvas, but the results were as barren as Fret's apartment promised to be. The tenants we managed to find—a harried-looking human mother, a reclusive Gnome who only opened his door a crack, and a pair of chatty Dhampirs who were more interested in gossip than facts—all painted the same picture: Fret was a ghost.
A quiet, shady figure who kept to himself, his comings and goings unnoticed, his life a closed book with no one interested in reading it. He had no friends here, only neighbors who vaguely recognized his face.
"Did you get anything useful, Sarwan?" I asked, rejoining him in the dimly lit hallway that smelled of stale cabbage and old magic.
"Nope, not even close," he grumbled, tucking his notepad away. "Nothing interesting. The guy was a professional hermit. The warrant's coming with the CSI team, so we'll finally be able to crack his shell. Maybe his four walls will be more talkative than his neighbors."
After a tense twenty-minute wait that felt much longer, the cavalry arrived. Two uniformed officers, accompanied by a pair of Brownies from a different unit—thankfully not Lars's—arrived with the signed paperwork. The lock yielded with a sharp crack, and the door swung open on a scene of unsettling sterility.
Fret's apartment was not large, a modest one-bedroom that was perfectly adequate for a single occupant. But it was its ordinariness that was so extraordinary. Most Ents, even those trapped in the city's concrete embrace, brought the forest indoors.
Their homes were typically miniature ecosystems—potted saplings, hanging vines, terrariums glowing with bioluminescent moss, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and photosynthesis. Fret's apartment lacked any such life. It was a void.
The walls were bare, the floor was a simple, unvarnished wood, and the kitchenette was spotless, devoid of even a single dish in the sink. It wasn't just neat; it was antiseptic, devoid of any personal touch, as if no one had ever truly lived here.
"Okay, split up and see what you can find," Sarwan directed, his voice echoing slightly in the empty space.
The team fanned out. The officers began a methodical search of the kitchen and bathroom cabinets, while the two Brownies, with their characteristic silent efficiency, started scanning and photographing every surface. I didn't have a specific target in mind; instead, I let my gaze drift, trying to absorb the feel of the place, to find the discordant note in this symphony of nothing. It was all too perfect, too staged. This wasn't a home; it was a hiding place.
Sarwan emerged from the bedroom half an hour later, frustration etched on his broad face. "Nothing of interest," he reported, running a hand through his hair. "No letters, no computer, no hidden stash in the mattress. But I can't shake the feeling that something is off."
"Too clean?" I ventured, putting words to the unease we both felt.
"Yes! Too clean! I mean, the guy was an Ent!" Sarwan gestured around the barren room. "Not one plant? Not even a sad little cactus on the windowsill? That's unheard of. It's like a Human choosing to live without oxygen."
"Maybe he was just... different from other Ents?" I suggested, though the theory felt weak even as I said it. I made my way over to the living room window, looking down at the busy street below, my mind racing. What kind of life was this?
"Yea, no way," Sarwan countered, joining me. "It's not a preference; it's a physiological need. Being completely severed from the earth and growing things for long periods makes them physically ill, lethargic. This place would be a torture chamber for him."
He sighed, the sound heavy in the quiet room. "Also, the guy's not exactly a saint with his record. I was really hoping there'd be something—a ledger, a suspicious contact, anything."
But as he stepped closer to me, the floorboard beneath his foot let out a sharp, protesting squeak.
I raised an eyebrow. Sarwan froze, then deliberately lifted his foot and put it down again in the same spot.
Squeak.
My eyes dropped to the floor, scanning the wooden planks. There, around the edges of a specific section, I saw it: a series of faint, parallel scratches in the finish, as if the board had been pried up and replaced multiple times. Sarwan and I locked eyes, a spark of shared understanding passing between us.
"Hey guys, can you come take a look at this?" I called out to the Brownies.
They were at our side in an instant, their cameras already whirring. They documented the floor from every angle, the flashes illuminating the tiny scratches. One of them, his movements as precise as a surgeon's, produced a thin, flexible metal pry bar from his kit. He carefully inserted the tip into the seam and, with a gentle, sustained pressure, lifted the section of flooring. It came up with a soft sigh of released pressure, revealing a shallow, dark compartment carved into the subfloor.
"Would you look at that," Sarwan breathed, a grin spreading across his face.
Nestled within the hidden space were four vacuum-sealed bags, each filled with a glistening, crystalline powder that seemed to catch the light and fracture it into a thousand tiny rainbows.
"Now this is interesting," I said, the thrill of the discovery coursing through me.
The Brownies went to work, photographing the bags in situ from every conceivable angle. Only after their meticulous documentation was complete did one of them, using tweezers, carefully lift one bag and place it in my gloved hand. The substance was a vibrant, almost electric pink, and it seemed to shimmer with an inner light. It was unnervingly beautiful.
"Seems like our Ent didn't manage to stay clean after all," I mused, turning the bag over in my hand.
Sarwan leaned in, his expression turning grim as he inspected the contents. "Rainbow Dust?" he said, the name landing with the weight of a known threat.
"Rainbow Dust?" I repeated. The name was familiar, a whisper on the wind from my time in the Dikes, but nothing like this.
"Yeah. The new synthetic nightmare that's been hitting the streets hard the last couple of months. Remember, Legolas and Gimli's unit in Narcotics is going crazy over it."
I nodded. "Well, this stuff is insane," Sarwan continued, his voice low. "You know how most drugs are species-specific? A potion that gets a Troll high might just give a Human a stomach ache, and a charm that enthralls a Siren does nothing for an Ork. But this one?" He pointed a thick finger at the bag. "This one's universal. It works on everything. Humans, Elves, Goblins, Fae... it doesn't discriminate. It started circulating about two months ago and it's spreading like a magical plague. It's that popular."
He shook his head, a shadow of professional disgust in his eyes. "It hits like a dragon's freight train. In the first week alone, we had a tidal wave of ODs. The morgue was stacked like cordwood—people and mythicals just frying their systems, left and right. The numbers dipped a bit in the following month, but only because the users who survived learned the lethal dosage. It's a brutal learning curve."
"It's easy to ingest, too," he added. "Smoke it, snort it, hell, you can even dissolve it and drink it. It'll find a way into your bloodstream."
"I remember my colleagues in the Dike had a case or two, but I didn't think it was this pervasive," I admitted, the scale of the problem dawning on me.
"Oh, here in the central districts, its popularity skyrocketed. The problem is, we've had zero luck tracking its source. This damn powder is like kryptonite to investigation magic! Scrying spells slide right off it, divination rituals return blank, alchemical analysis just... fails. It's like the compound is bound by something we've never seen before. And the other thing," he said, locking eyes with me, "it's extremely addictive. We're talking one-and-done for some people. Their life belongs to the Dust after the first hit."
"So our dead Ent was a dealer." I asked, the pieces starting to form a clearer, more sinister picture.
"I don't know, man…" Sarwan said, his brow furrowed in thought. "That stuff costs an arm and a leg, and yet people are selling their souls for it. And in here," he hefted the bag in his hand, gauging its weight, "there's about 200 grams? More or less. And at 300 bucks a gram on the street, this little bag is worth around sixty thousand. And there are four bags here."
I let out a low whistle, the number hitting me "That's a lot. A quarter of a million dollars' worth of narcotics."
"Exactly," Sarwan said, his voice grave. "This isn't a small-time dealer's stash. This is a distributor's inventory. Our quiet, plant-loving Ent wasn't just a low-level thug. He was sitting on a king's ransom. And someone knew it."
I stroked my chin, the rough stubble a grounding sensation against the sheer, glittering value of the discovery. The pieces were there, but they weren't fitting together neatly.
"No…" I mused, thinking aloud. "If a rival dealer or an addict, they wouldn't have left this place so pristine. It would have been torn apart, floorboards ripped up, walls punched through. This... this cleanliness suggests his secret died with him."
"Also, Fret's connection to the magical apothecary still doesn't make complete sense," I continued, pacing the small, barren room. "Why there? What was the ultimate goal?"
Sarwan's eyes glazed over for a moment, his mind working through the labyrinth of possibilities. Then, a spark of clarity ignited in his gaze.
"What if... our Ent wasn't just a lone wolf? What if he was working with or, more likely, for someone? We know a mysterious benefactor bailed him out repeatedly. That's not charity; that's an investment." He pointed a finger toward the city outside. "He gets a job at the apothecary specifically to be their inside man."
He began to pace alongside me, the floorboards creaking under his weight. "And the reason it had to be that apothecary is that there's something inside—something specific—that he or his employer needed."
"The ingredients!" I finished, the final piece of the puzzle snapping into place with an almost audible click.
"That's it," Sarwan said, his voice rising with excitement. "An ingredient from the apothecary to make the Rainbow Dust!" He slammed a fist into his open palm. "It's the only thing that fits. They didn't take the money because money is too small."
"Exactly," I said, the theory solidifying. "The anonymous bailouts weren't about helping Fret; they were about placing an asset. The return on investment wasn't cash; it was access to rob the apothecary blind of a specific, crucial component."
"But why kill him?" I asked, turning to face Sarwan. "If he was their inside man, he was an asset. Why dispose of him immediately after the successful heist?"
Sarwan looked at me as if the answer was written on the wall.
"Isn't it obvious?" he said, his tone suggesting it was the most natural conclusion in the world. He held up the bag of glittering pink dust, its beauty belying its deadly nature.
"There is no way a small-time dealer like Fret had the capital for a stash like this. This isn't a dealer's inventory; this is a kingpin's warehouse sample. He was stealing from the source."
The revelation hit me. "He was skimming the product on the side," I said, the words leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.
"And that's why they killed him after the heist. He wasn't just a loose end; he was an embezzler."
"Bingo," Sarwan smiled, a grim, humorless expression. "They used him to get what they needed, found out he was pocketing the crown jewels, and made an example of him. A final, messy audit."
"So they must have stolen a massive quantity of this unknown ingredient," I concluded, the scale of the operation becoming terrifyingly clear.
"Enough that they don't need to risk another theft for a long, long time. They got their raw materials, consolidated their operation, and tidied up their internal security problem all in one night."
"And they could finish off Fret without a second thought," Sarwan finished, nodding grimly. "A disloyal employee stealing a product that's magically inert to investigation? They had zero reason to keep him alive. It all fits."
"This is big, Theo," Sarwan said, his voice dropping to a serious, hushed tone. The earlier excitement was gone, replaced by the grim weight of the truth. "This isn't just a murder and a B&E anymore. If we can identify what specific ingredient was stolen from that warehouse, we could potentially isolate at least one component of the Rainbow Dust. That... that would be the first crack in an impenetrable wall. It opens up entirely new avenues of investigation."
"And maybe," I finished, meeting his gaze, the determination solidifying within me, "that single ingredient leads us straight to the manufacturer. And the manufacturer leads us directly to Fret's killer."
We stood in silence for a moment, the only sound the faint clicking of the Brownies' cameras documenting the damning evidence. The quiet, barren apartment no longer felt empty; it felt charged with the echo of betrayal and the looming shadow of a criminal enterprise far more sophisticated and ruthless than we had imagined.
The final evidence log was signed, the apartment was sealed with fresh, official tape, and the weight of the four bags of Rainbow Dust was now a literal and figurative burden carried by the stoic Brownies back to the forensics lab.
The initial adrenaline of the discovery had faded, leaving behind the gritty residue of a long day and the certain knowledge of the mountain of paperwork that awaited us. We slumped into the worn leather seats of the brown Ford, the car groaning in sympathy. The scent of stale coffee and old leather was now a familiar, if not welcome, perfume.
Sarwan fired up the engine, but before pulling into the chaotic flow of late-afternoon traffic, he pulled out his phone, scrolling through his contacts with his feathered thumb before hitting dial.
"Hey, Otto. It's Sarwan," he said, his voice a mix of professional weariness and forced cheer.
"Listen, I need you to get on the horn with Lilly, the manager at the Dryad Dixie. We need a complete and detailed inventory log—a list of every single thing that's missing, down to the last gram of newt spleen. I know, I know," he interjected, anticipating the protest. "It'll take her a whole day, maybe more. Just impress upon her that this is now a homicide investigation and we need it yesterday."
He listened for a moment, nodding. "Also, we just cleared the victim's apartment. The CSI team is bringing in four bags of Rainbow Dust. If your lab techs can lift any prints, fibers, or even a stray eyelash from those bags, you send the report directly to my desk. This is our hottest lead."
He finished the call with a grunt of thanks and tossed the phone onto the dashboard. "Well, partner. We've got something to start with, at least. A direction."
"Yea," I sighed, leaning my head against the cool window, watching the impossible architecture of Wonder City blur past. "A shame we won't get any of it until tomorrow. The waiting is the worst part."
"Tell me about it," Sarwan grumbled, expertly swerving around a slow-moving cart pulled by a disgruntled-looking earth elemental.
"You'd think with all the magic in this city, someone would have invented a spell to speed up bureaucracy. 'Accio Completed Form!' But no. I always regretted that real police work isn't like the TV shows." He chuckled.
"You know, 'CSI: Ravenspire' or 'FBI: Magoria's Most Wanted.'"
I couldn't help but laugh, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly. "Don't tell me you actually watch that garbage?"
"Hey! Don't you dare disrespect the classics!" Sarwan protested, feigning offense. He then struck a dramatic pose, one hand on the steering wheel, the other pretending to adjust a pair of sunglasses. "Lieutenant Horatio Bane is a genius! A visionary!"
He then launched into a full-blown impression, his voice dropping an octave into a gravelly, overly serious monotone. He set the scene: "A guy has been impaled on an ice sculpture at a high-society Yeti wedding."
He switched characters, pitching his voice higher to mimic the coroner. "'In the light of day? In a house filled with people? That's cold-blooded, Horatio.'"
Then, back to Bane, he slowly, deliberately, mimed taking off his imaginary sunglasses, staring into the middle distance with profound intensity.
"Yes, Alex. It's as cold…" he paused for a full three seconds, letting the dramatic tension build,
"...as ice."
He then slammed his hands on the steering wheel. "YEAHHH! Cue the theme music!"
I lost it, laughing out loud, the image of the perpetually grim Bane and Sarwan's utterly sincere performance cutting through the day's gloom.
"That was amazing! Spot on!"
"Right?!" Sarwan said, beaming with pride as he navigated the traffic circle known colloquially as 'The Maelstrom.' "The man is a legend. If I wasn't a detective, I tell you, I'd have been an actor. I've got the presence for it." He puffed out his chest, then had to quickly swerve to avoid clipping the wing of a griffin descending into a rooftop aviary.
The rest of the drive back to the precinct was filled with a lighter atmosphere. Sarwan treated me to more of his impressions, from a hard-boiled Dwarf detective from "Streets of Shadowhaven" to the flamboyant Elven host of "Mythical Makeover."
It was a welcome respite, a moment of simple camaraderie. It reminded me that beneath the badges, the magic, and the grim realities of our job, we were just two guys in a crappy car, finding a way to laugh through the darkness. And for the first time since I'd arrived at the Solomon Precinct, the title "partner" started to feel real.