Chapter 1

The Mysterious Strager

The rain in Portland had a peculiar quality, a relentless persistence that seemed to seep into every crevice of the city. As I walked the familiar streets, my detective´s coat pulled tight against the drizzle, I couldn´t shake off the feeling that today was different. The city felt charged, as if it were holdingits breath.

I arrived at the scene of the homicide, my partner Hank already there, his expression grim. The body was in a narrow alley, contorted in an unnatural way, its surroundings splattered in a way that suggested a struggle, or worse, a savage attack.

„What do we have, Hank?" I asked, crouching beside him.

„Another one, Nick," he replied, his voice low. „same M.O. as the last two. It´s like nothing i´ve ever seen."

I examined the scene, the odd angle of the limbs, the deep, ragged wounds. It didn´t make sense, none of it did. As I stood, my gaze drifted across the street. Among the gathering crowd of onlookers, a man stood alone, his attention fixed on the scene before him. He was tall, with a muscular build, his dark hair peppered with grey, much like the beard that framed his strong jaw. His arms, visible beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt, bore scars that spoke of a turbulent past.

„Who´s that?" I nodded towards the stranger.

Hand glanced over. „Don´t know. Haven´t seen him before."

Something about the man intrigued me. His gaze wasn´t that of a casual onlooker; it was too intense, too focused. I made a menntal note to question him later.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of routine – canvassing, interviewing witnesses, and the ever-mouting paperwork. Yet, my thoughts kept returning to the mysterious stranger.

That evening, drivenn by a nagging curiosity, I found myself wwandering the streets, the image of the man haunting my thoughts. Almost unconsciously, I was drawn to a part of the city I rarely visited. The streets here were quiter, the shadows deeper. And there, nestled between two larger buildings, was a bar I hadn´t noticed before, its sign reading „The Enchanted Quill."

Pushing the door open, I was greeted by a warm, inviting atmosphere, a stark contrast to the cold, wet streets. The interior was dimly lit, the walls adorned with an electic mix of artifacts and books. And there, behind the bar, was the man from the crime scene.

I approached the bar, pulling off my wet coat. „Evening," I said. „You wwere at the crime scene today."

He looked up, his eyes meeting mine. „Was I? This City has so many scenes, Detective."

I was taken aback. „How did you know I´m a detective?"

He smiled slightly, a knowing look in his eyes. „You have that air about you. Plus, your badge is partially visible, even under your coat."

„Right," I said, slightly thrown off. I´m Nick Burkhardt."

„Harry," he replied, his voice deep and even. „What can I get for you ?"

I hestitated, then opted for a coffee. As he turned to prepare it. I took a closer look around. The bar was Sparsely populated, a few patrons scattered at tables, deep in conservation.

„So, Harry," I started as he placed the coffee befor me. „You seem to know this part of town well."

he leaned on the bar, his gaze thoughtful, „You could say that. It´s full of stories, this part of Portland."

„Anything that might explain what´s happening? The murders?" I pressed, watching his reaction closely.

Harry was silent for a moment. „This City has its secrets, Detective. Some of them darker than others. But i´m just a bartender."

His response was frustratingly vague. I sipped my coffee, considering my next move. „Do you get many unusual characters in here?"

„You could say that," Harry replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. „People from all walks of life. It´s Portland, after all."

A couple at a nearby table caught my attention. They seemed out of place, their clothes slightly too old-fashioned, their conversation hushed but intense. The woman glanced over, her eyes sharp and calculating.

I turned back to Harry. „And none of your patrons seem...odd to you?"

Harry followed my gaze, then looked back at me. „Odd is a relative term, Detective. What´s normal for the spider is chaos for the fly."

Before I could ask more, the door swung open, and a gust of wind brought in two more patrons, a man and a woman, both dressed in business attire, looking around curiously before choosing a table.

„people find their way here," Harry said, wiping down the bar. „Sometimes they`re looking for something, sometimes they´re running from something. Either way, they find a momentßs peace here."

I finisched my coffee, feeling no closer to understanding the man before me. „Thanks for the coffee, Harry."

He nodded, his expression unreadable. „Anytime, Detective. And be careful out there. The City can be unpredictable."