They call me Steve. Skeleton detective. Not much flesh left to feel with, but the bones remember. And in Skeleville, memory is currency—haunted, bent, and never paid in full. Welcome to my city. Or don’t. The welcome can be rough.

Skeleville hums in neon murmurs, all concrete canyons and fog-clogged alleys. Rain slicks the streets like liquid silver, washing yesterday’s sins into gutters that stink of ash and busted promises. Towers loom overhead, tired and leaning, their windows glowing with half-lived lives. Every corner’s got a story. I keep most of them rattling around in my skull.

The dead walk here. Not politely. Not quietly. They squawk, shout, whisper things you really wish you didn’t hear. Ghosts in trench coats. Poltergeists wrapped in cigar smoke. Banshees crying tears that eat straight through concrete. And the Ghost Mafia? Not a myth. More like a rumor with teeth. They steal relics, twist souls, mess with eternity. That’s my beat.

I lean on the hood of my car, cigarette burning low, spectral tears tracing bone down hollow cheeks. I take it all in—the neon lies, graffiti screaming “BOO,” jazz clubs buzzing with half-life tunes. I walk the line between what’s breathing and what’s just lingering. Some call me a detective. Some call me a ghost-whisperer. Me? I’m just the guy trying to keep balance in a city that forgot what it lost.

So stick close, stranger. Watch your step. Shadows bite in Skeleville, and the storm never lets up. But if you can handle the rain, the fog, the voices—you might catch a glimpse of truth, stripped clean to the bone.

They call me Steve. Skeleton detective. Not much flesh left to feel with, but the bones remember. And in Skeleville, memory is currency—haunted, bent, and never paid in full. Welcome to my city. Or don’t. The welcome can be rough.

Skeleville hums in neon murmurs, all concrete canyons and fog-clogged alleys. Rain slicks the streets like liquid silver, washing yesterday’s sins into gutters that stink of ash and busted promises. Towers loom overhead, tired and leaning, their windows glowing with half-lived lives. Every corner’s got a story. I keep most of them rattling around in my skull.

The dead walk here. Not politely. Not quietly. They squawk, shout, whisper things you really wish you didn’t hear. Ghosts in trench coats. Poltergeists wrapped in cigar smoke. Banshees crying tears that eat straight through concrete. And the Ghost Mafia? Not a myth. More like a rumor with teeth. They steal relics, twist souls, mess with eternity. That’s my beat.

I lean on the hood of my car, cigarette burning low, spectral tears tracing bone down hollow cheeks. I take it all in—the neon lies, graffiti screaming “BOO,” jazz clubs buzzing with half-life tunes. I walk the line between what’s breathing and what’s just lingering. Some call me a detective. Some call me a ghost-whisperer. Me? I’m just the guy trying to keep balance in a city that forgot what it lost.

So stick close, stranger. Watch your step. Shadows bite in Skeleville, and the storm never lets up. But if you can handle the rain, the fog, the voices—you might catch a glimpse of truth, stripped clean to the bone.