Commissioned Artwork by @PTGHO (Paz The Great Horned One)

  While most of New Warren slumbered under the mountain’s weight, one crooked artery still led to the surface. Workers had carved it over decades, digging deeper and deeper, leaving behind temporary shelters stacked like vertebrae along the slope. Locals called it 'The Stairs'—a winding belt of rusted cranes, cable cars, and sagging warehouses. When the mining crews left, the empty rooms filled with the city’s unwanted.

  Tonight, sirens ricocheted off the rain-slick tenements as a lone figure ran through steam and shadow. His shoes slapped puddles, scattering oily rainbows. The Stairs’ alleys twisted like a trap built on bad decisions. He slowed, bent double, breath burning in his throat. A crash—a trash can—and something inside hissed its displeasure. He pushed on, toward the pale blink of a flickering streetlamp.

  A hand shot from the dark, grabbing his collar and slamming him against brick. Water dripped into his eyes off the brim of a hat as he stared up into a rat’s sneer. Sharp, white teeth peeking out from under the shadows.

  "Binn Glarkle," Buck said, voice low and certain. "You’re under arrest for the murder of Fanny Glarkle."

  He spun Binn to the wall just as a patrol car nosed in, lights painting the wet street. Two uniformed canines got out.

  "Nice collar, Buck," one said, cuffing Binn and moving him to the backseat.

  Buck carefully pulled a baggie from inside his coat and handed it to the officer. Inside, a sharp kitchen knife covered in blood. "Here's the murder weapon. He tried to ditch it in a dumpster. The prints should make this one open-and-shut."

  The officer accepted the evidence with an impressed sniff.

  "Much appreciated. I'm sure the captain will send you a gift basket." The officer's next words came slowly. "Listen, I’d offer you a ride back but—" a grimace "—brass says no more rides for ex-cops."

  Buck waved him off. "Go on, get out of here. I’ll grab a cab."

  The cruiser rolled away towards the Stoneroot precinct. Buck scanned the empty street. A tilted sign at the intersection read 4th and Clover. Binn had led him on quite the chase. Taxis weren’t known to hang around this area.

  He began his journey home on foot. Wary glares watching from behind the slits of closed blinds. A mother ushered her children inside, leaving a scattering of chalk on the sidewalk. These were dangerous times. A serial killer dubbed by the press as "The Cremation Killer" had been racking up bodies and the police still had no leads. Buck's own investigations hadn’t turned up any more than the police.

  It was late evening by the time he arrived at his favorite greasy spoon. Grenda’s 24-hour Diner. The neon glow of the sign like a lighthouse shining out across a concrete sea. A welcoming beacon promising a safe haven of comfort and cholesterol.

  The door’s tiny bell announced his arrival and he slid into his usual booth by the window. Grenda herself, a stout and bespectacled dwarven woman with her graying hair contained by a ratty hairnet and cigarette hanging from her lip, arrived to take Buck’s order.

  "Hey, Buck. Get ya’ the usual?" He nodded and Grenda placed a stained coffee cup in front of him which filled with steaming, black coffee all on its own. She grabbed a newspaper from a nearby table and slapped it down before clomping back to the kitchen. He took a deep breath, enjoying the brew's bouquet. A comforting end-of-day ritual for him.

  He’d barely started reading when the seat across from him dipped. A furry, smelly gnoll he knew as Grant Borden. A trifecta of large, ugly and dumb. The perfect mob muscle. The thug sat across from him, drumming his claws on the table.

  "The boss wants to have a word wit’ yous. It’s pretty important."

  Buck didn't look up. "Waiting to hear why I should care."

  Grant leaned in, voice dripping smug. "Why should you care? Last time I checked, you weren’t doing so hot. At least when your partner was around maybe you could—"

  In a flash of steel and cutlery, a fork thunked through Grant’s sleeve into the table. Buck’s eyes were knives. He slowly rose from his seat, eyes locked on the gnoll.

  "L-listen," Grant stammered, pulling at the pinned limb. "Forget I said that. Let me start over. The Don's got a job for you. A big one. This is your…uh…invitation." He rummaged in his jacket pocket with his free hand and slid a thick envelope across the table.

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  "Don't be putting holes in my tables, Buck!" Grenda called out from behind the diner’s main counter. "Or the customers!" She stubbed her cigarette out on her apron and banged through the swinging doors to the kitchen with a huff.

  Buck pulled the fork free and peeked inside the envelope. The Don didn’t throw this kind of money around just to talk. He must be worried about something. "Tell your boss I'll think about it."

  Grant picked at the holes in his sleeve hem and scowled. "Be sure to mind your manners with the Don, flatfoot. Would hate to pay your office another visit." He stormed from the booth and left the diner. That explained the wrecked state of his office yesterday. Maybe it was time to hire a secretary.

  Buck sat back down to finish his coffee and the Crier Dispatch article—another Lotus fire, this one in Caverlock. The wreckage laid out like its namesake flower. The still smoldering embers as the stamen in the center. His signature. No deaths, no collateral damage, and oddly, no outrage from the locals. Respect, even.

  He stood and tossed a few klopens on the table. How an arsonist could earn respect was beyond him. It was only a matter of time before a fire would get out of hand. Then there’d be more bodies on the ledger. His eyes were drawn to the puncture marks he’d left on the tabletop. Over his shoulder, Grenda stood watching; arms crossed and foot tapping with irritation. He pulled a few bills from the Don's envelope and added them to the pile for the damage.

  The walk home was quiet except for the streetlamps' familiar and comfortable hum. He mulled over the invitation. Don Vincent Pazienza wasn't someone you ever wanted to cross but accepting a job from him meant you’d be stained for life. Publicly, the Don was just another businessman of New Warren. Buck knew him to be a slimy kingpin with his claws in every facet of this underground metropolis; public works to criminal enterprise. The weight of the envelope in his coat suddenly felt heavier. He hoped he wouldn't regret this.

  Outside of his apartment building, a group of young boys sat on the entrance stairs, chattering amongst themselves. A young marten in dirty overalls and a worn flat cap perked up as Buck approached. "Hiya Buck! How's tricks?" he called out with a wave.

  "Evening, Martin. Keeping you and your boys out of trouble, I hope?" Martin was a scrappy street kid; preferring the back alleys and side streets to the cots at the local boy’s home. He and his street-wise group of connections were surprisingly vast.

  "Oh you betcha! All's well on the western front and all that." Martin said this proudly, believing he got the quote correct. The others all murmured in the affirmative as well. Buck gave them a gentle chuckle.

  "Good to hear. Here's what I owe you from before," he said and handed Martin a few folded klopens from his wallet. "Any news on you-know-who?"

  Martin happily accepted the money and turned to give it to a pudgy, porcine child. "Vault, go stash this for later." The kid oinked in understanding and took off on his stubby little hooves. Martin turned back to Buck beaming proudly. "You bet! Specs here said he had a visitor not too long ago. Real fancy dude in a real fancy car." A small mole boy nodded enthusiastically.

  "That's not exactly news considering where he lives," Buck said, shaking his head. "Every house in Crystal Meadows has a new fancy car every other week."

  "Nah nah nah!" Martin interjected. "This was REAL fancy. Like the dude had a driver and the wheels were real shiny!" Specs nodded even harder and had to stop to catch his glasses before they slid off his nose.

  Buck filed it away. Crystal Meadows types didn’t usually mingle with people on his watch list—unless something big was brewing. He gave Specs a friendly grin. "Not bad kid, anything else? Did they say anything or exchange any packages? Money?"

  Specs whispered something in Martin’s ear. "Specs says he don't know, man. He could only get so close and they left almost as soon as they arrived."

  "All right, thanks for the intel. Keep your ears open." Buck handed Specs his own folded klopen and headed inside. They were good kids. He liked to think his requests to monitor certain folk helped keep the marten and his ilk out of trouble. Deeper trouble anyway.

  He unlocked the door to his place and hung up his trench coat and hat on the coat rack near the door. The apartment was the same cramped, half-lived-in space as always. A kitchen with a used fridge, a sink and some counter space. The ‘living room’ had a single large couch that doubled as a bed for those nights he couldn’t manage the last couple of steps to his bedroom.

  Framed moments from a better time hung on the walls. His graduation photo from the academy hung next to his father’s. A framed article about when he helped catch the Cluny Street Slasher. His favorite—him and Sam standing in front of the fresh paint drying on their new Gemineye Investigations door—stared back at him like a memory that didn’t quite fit anymore.

  He crashed on the couch and turned his TV on to some old black and white movie. The pull of sleep came fast and without warning.

  Fire. Fire and smoke. Heat. A rumbling. A crash. A cry.

  Buck’s eyes snapped open. The familiar rumble of a moving subway car drummed in his ears. The interior lit only by the passing tunnel lights. The rhythmic clack of the wheels on the rails thrummed a hypnotic, depressing mantra.

  You failed-you failed. You failed-you failed. You failed-you failed.

  Around the darkened car, charred corpses followed his gaze. Hollowed out eyes in blackened skulls. Patchy, singed fur mottled around cracked skin. One of them, a tired looking fox, met Buck's eyes as he scanned the interior. "Keep moving forward, Buck,'' it whispered, mouth unmoving. "Just gotta keep moving forward." An elderly mole woman at his side suddenly echoed the same, "Keep moving forward."

  Another one, a porcupine, grabbed Buck's shoulder. His eyes were hollow too but for a faint point of light, deep in the socket. His voice reverberated in Buck’s chest. "Keep moving forward. Find me."

  Buck gasped awake and sat up straight, his neck immediately complaining about the lack of support it had for the last several hours. "Frackin’ nightmares," he muttered, rubbing his neck as he stretched his crying muscles. His stomach joined the cacophony of complaints as it grumbled in hunger. He checked his watch. Just about mid-day. He grabbed his coat and hat and headed back to Grenda's diner.