The city always looked innocent at night.Too many lights. Too many smiles reflected in glass.That's how Lyra Vale knew it was lying.
At exactly 1:42 a.m., she stood on the edge of a rooftop that didn't exist on any official map, rain slicking the concrete like the city was trying to erase its own mistakes. The crime scene had already been cleaned—no blood, no tape, no witnesses.
Which meant someone powerful wanted it forgotten.
Lyra smiled.
She lived for things that wanted to disappear.
Twenty-four years old. Calm pulse. Sharp mind. A mission stitched into her bones. She crouched, fingers brushing the ground, eyes catching what everyone else missed: a scuff mark too deliberate, a footprint half-washed by rain, a lie pretending to be an accident.
"Found you," she whispered.
"Talking to the ground now?" a voice said behind her. "Bold move."
Lyra didn't turn. She sighed.
"Let me guess," she said. "You followed me, you're about to ask questions, and you think this is where I panic."
A pause. Then a low laugh.
"I was hoping for panic," the stranger replied. "But I'll settle for impressed."
She stood and turned slowly—controlled, unreadable—and came face to face with a man who looked entirely too comfortable standing where he shouldn't be. Dark jacket, rain in his hair, eyes sharp enough to cut through excuses. He leaned like the night belonged to him.
"You're trespassing," Lyra said.
"So are you."
"I was invited."
"By who?" he asked.
She smiled sweetly. "None of your business."
That earned another laugh. The dangerous kind—the kind that meant he was clocking her just as fast as she was clocking him.
Below them, the city pulsed. Somewhere far away, sirens sang lullabies.
Lyra stepped past him, because staying was how mistakes happened.
She had a mission.
Three deaths. Six months. All labeled accidents. All orbiting the same name: Elias Crowe—public hero, private mystery, smile polished sharp enough to cut.
Everyone thought Elias Crowe was the villain.
Lyra had the proof.
Or so she believed.
As she reached the door, the stranger spoke again, quieter this time.
"You're hunting someone who doesn't need hiding," he said. "That should scare you."
Her hand froze on the handle.
Slowly, she turned back.
"And you are…?" she asked.
He met her gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
"Someone who's been cleaning up messes longer than you think," he said. "Including yours."
The air shifted. Not fear—something worse.
Recognition.
Lyra's phone buzzed in her pocket. A new message. One line.
STOP DIGGING. YOU'RE CLOSER THAN YOU KNOW.
Her pulse stayed steady. But something inside her cracked open.
She looked up.
The stranger was already walking away.
"Hey," she called. "You still haven't told me your name."
He paused at the door, half-smile returning—soft, almost regretful.
"You'll wish you never asked," he said.
And then he was gone.
The city breathed.The lie deepened.And Lyra Vale realized—too late—that the case hadn't started tonight.
It had started with her.