Problem Sleuth is dead.
Some, like Pickle Inspector, has seemed to try to convince themselves of otherwise, painstakingly trying to go about their normal lives and act like the detective wasn't dead and everything was just fine, despite the fact that business was going more downhill than ever, and that the death of Kingpin caused smaller gangs to appear and cause more crime than there had been in the past, smaller, more sporadic and problematic crimes that could happen completely unplanned and kept the remaining members of Team Sleuth on their toes.
Pickle Inspector spent more time than ever wasted, imagining an existence where Sleuth was alive and they could celebrate the defeat of Kingpin without the arousal of the smaller local gangs.
When he's sober, the Inspector had managed to convince himself that Sleuth was out sick, much to the disdain and pity that flooded from everyone else.
Hysterical Dame was in agony. Every time that the Arbiter was mentioned, everyone could tell that she was holding back a panic attack, it was sickening, for Broad to watch the girl break down in gross sobs every time someone was talking about Problem Sleuth. She barely knew him, but when she had seen him, when he was alive, she felt a connection. The way he had smiled at her, when he said hello, when she watched him fight with all the beauty and grace she had ever seen. The True Arbiter.
Even the Midnight Crew had felt that same guilt. They had minor involvement in the death of the detective, seeing how he had drained all his magic and life force in order to kill Mobster Kingpin prior to falling to his death. It hit Spades the hardest.
The death wasn't even big news- Sleuth was considered a casualty, something casually brought up after the weather forecast. Spades Slick was angered by this.
There was a lot of yelling and screaming within the hideout that night, all coming from Spades, himself. Screams of how Sleuth didn't get the representation he deserved, that is wasn't fair, it wasn't fucking fair. Droog would spend hours trying to get the leader to settle down, it doesn't matter. He was a detective.
Regardless, Slick kept screaming about how he did something BIG, Sleuth had kicked ass big-time, and wasn't even recognized for it. Sleuth didn't make prime-time news, not even a thank you.
Just a victim to the night, indifferent to a small car crash on the freeway. It made Spades sick.
The commotion had lasted until the morning, when Slick had yelled his voice dry and Droog had to help him to bed.
In a different part of the universe entirely, resting softly on the godhead's palm, somebody moved a game piece, smiling.
"Checkmate," the smiling voice said in a smooth, content tone.
"I win, wanna do another round?" Problem Sleuth looked up at Death, who nodded and reset their side of the board, waiting for Sleuth to do the same. Sleuth set his side of the chess board before taking a sip of some tea he had set aside. Him and Death had been playing games together for a while now, enjoying the silence and peace that was present.
After a few silent, hesitant moments after the detective had set down his teacup, Death asked if Sleuth was ready for his soul to rest in peace.
"Nah," Sleuth replied.
"I want to play a few more games first."