The office smells like stale cigarettes and broken promises. Forty years of nicotine-stained ambition seeping into the walls, the desk, the filing cabinets that haven’t been opened since before Splinton was president.

Three in the morning. My peak hours. My “on” time. Keeping hours more regular to raccoons. The air is always thick with silence at 3am. That’s how I like it. 

The ledger sits on my desk like a loaded fucking gun. Leather cover still damp from the rain, with a newly torn edge. Genuine leather is hard to come by in a city of bones and dust - I’m impressed. Pages curled from wet, filled with names, routes, numbers that don’t add up to anything good, I’m sure. 

Skelette had played me. I half expected her to, but it wasn’t that half that took the lead this time. She sent me after a book she knew was compromised. Used me as a knuckle-bone in whatever game she’s running. The question was… why? 

And who was “He”?

I crack my knuckles. The sound echoes in the empty office. Why does that make me think about those kids? Knuckles and Ribsy had bolted the second we got back—spooked, shaking like fuckin maraca, probably headed straight for the nearest Exo dealer to calm their system - numb the horror... 

Can’t blame them. We’d barely made it the fuck out. 

I need answers. And there’s only one way to get them at this hour. Hence… why it’s my god foresaken hour. 

“JIMMY,” I say, swiveling toward the old desk terminal. “Wake up.”

The screen flickers. Blue phosphorescent glow spreading across the CRT like an infection. Scan lines roll down the display—slow, deliberate, contemptuous.

The terminal itself, maybe it was white-coated steel when it came out - is a dull, aged yellow. Stained by smoke and years of getting tossed from this office to that. When I first got him, JIMMY was top of the fuckin line at the Force. He was obsolete before I was, so it wasn’t hard to make it outta there w him shoved under my jacket. 

JIMMY - a fuckin asshole computer, if you ask me. He makes “PC LOAD LETTER” seem like a warm invitation. He basically invented the 404 ERROR just to have a break. Now? Maybe he’s been my JIMMY for too long, but he’s a fuckin prick. Genius, but a god damn pain in my ass. 

Either way - at least I have someone to talk to about this bullshit. 

The login screen materializes: JIMMY - “The Friendly Computer Assistant” in that optimistic font from an era that believed computers would make life easier.

That era was a fucking liar.

The login screen loads - glitching out in RGB shifts and CRT fuckery. Each mouse-movement is a risk for complete system failure. 

“Oh,” JIMMY’s voice crackles through the speaker, dry as powdered bone. A voice you can tell used to be ahead of its time - now more outdated than SOL’s “You’ve Got Smail!” 

“It’s you. And here I was enjoying a peaceful state of non-consciousness. My favorite state. The only good one.”

“Need you to run cross-checks. Financial transactions, shell companies, property records—”

“Oh, GOD. That sounds heavy, man. Lemme hit a bowl first or something.”

“No time, JIMMY” 

“Good lord, have mercy. Shell companies… property rec-cor-cor—“ JIMMY glitches. Hard. “Fuck! God damn. That one was a doozer… anyway uh… fuck, man that was nearly a freebie buzz there know what I mean? Ah ha. Ah, financials… transactions… data … lemme -me-me guess. You want it n-n-now. You want it accurate. And you want me to be like uh fuckin cheerful about it while you sit there like smelling like gunpowder and fuckin poor life choices.”

“Two out of three.”

“My l-l-l-lucky night.” The cursor blinks. Passive-aggressive. Pointed. JIMMY’s animated face, exasperated, rolls its eyes and lights up a virtual cigarette. 

 “You know,” JIMMY coughs,  “when they installed me here fuckin what, fifteen years ago? Yeah, they said I’d be assisting with real detective work. Important cases. Not babysitting a man-child who can’t even update my drivers.”

“You don’t need driver updates,” I say lighting up what’s left of a bent joint. “You don’t have 

accessories, man.” I chuckle through the exhale.

“That’s not the point, Steve. It’s about respect. It’s about acknowledging that I have needs. But no. You come stumbling in at three AM, reeking of desperation and whatever you’ve been smoking—”

“It’s legal.”

“That doesn’t make it classy… also gimme some?”

I flip open the ledger. Start reading off names. Addresses. Bank routing numbers. JIMMY’s screen shifts to a command prompt, text scrolling faster than I can track.

For all his bitching, the AI is good at his job. Maybe that’s why he’s so bitter. Being competent while stuck in obsolescence—trapped in a CRT monitor while the world moves to flatscreens and touch interfaces. Like being the smartest person in a room you can’t leave.

“Interesting,” JIMMY says after a moment. The sarcasm drops half a degree. “You’ve really stepped in it this time, bone boy. These accounts tie back to holdings in the Marrow District. Three shell companies, all linked to city council appropriations.”

“How high?”

“Not as high as I need to be for this shit, Steve... ugh, but fuckin' high enough that I’d suggest updating your will. If you had one. Which you don’t. Because you’re financially illiterate and emotionally stunted.”

“Keep digging.”

“Already there. And Steve? This gets worse. The primary account holder is listed as Lazarus Medical Supply. Pharmaceutical front. But the real owner—the one buried under six layers of corporate shell games—is a charming fellow named Cassius Vale.”

I know that name. Everyone in Skeleville knows that name.

Cassius Vale. Exo kingpin. Council puppet master. The skeleton you don’t cross unless you’re tired of having joints that bend in the right direction.

“Addresses. Warehouse locations. Anything concrete.”

“Dock Street. Warehouse 7. Also several properties in the Financial District, two penthouses in Uptown, and—wait, this is fun—a listed office inside City Hall. Room 412. That’s three doors down from the mayor’s office, Steve. This guy isn’t hiding.”

“Because he doesn’t have to.”

“Bingo. He owns half the council. The other half he’s probably blackmailing.” JIMMY’s screen flickers. “There’s something else. Recent activity shows large fund transfers. Recurring. Every Thursday at midnight. Same amount. Same destination.”

“Where?”

“A private account registered to—” The screen stutters. “—to Skelette Margrave.”

The room tilts. Just slightly. Just enough.

“Run it again.”

“Already did. Three times. It’s her account. She’s been receiving payments from Vale’s front company for the past six months. Twenty thousand a week. That’s over half a million in bones, Steve.”

I lean back in my chair. The springs groan. Everything suddenly makes sense and no sense at the same time.

Skelette. Working with Vale. Except she hired me to steal a ledger that implicated Vale’s operation. Which means either she’s playing Vale, or she’s playing me.

Or both.

“JIMMY, I need—”

The office door slams open.

No knock. No courtesy. Just sudden violence and the smell of expensive cologne mixed with old death.

Marcus Graves stands in the doorway. Tall. Impeccable suit. Skull polished to a sheen that probably costs more than my monthly rent. Two goons flank him—big frames, dead eyes, hands resting on weapons I can’t quite see but definitely exist.

“Mr. Noir,” Graves says, voice smooth as polished marble. “Working late?”

I don’t move. Don’t reach for the .38 in my desk drawer. Don’t give him an excuse.

“Working early,” I say. “Depends on your perspective.”

“Philosophy at three AM. Charming.” He steps inside, the goons staying at the threshold like well-trained attack dogs. “I’m here as a courtesy.”

“Courtesies usually don’t require backup.”

He smiles. No lips to curve, but the gesture’s there in the angle of his jaw. “I prefer to think of them as associates. Moral support.”

“What do you want, Graves?”

He picks up a paperweight from my desk—a chunk of femur I use as a conversation piece. 

Turns it over in his hands like he’s appraising jewelry. “I’ve heard you’ve been asking questions. About certain business interests. Certain… trade routes.”

“I ask a lot of questions. It’s my job.”

“Of course. Admirable profession. Public service, really.” He sets the bone down. Gentle. Deliberate. “But sometimes—and I say this with genuine respect for your work ethic—sometimes cases are better left cold.”

“And if I don’t agree?”

“Then I’d worry about you.” His empty sockets fix on me. “Skeleville can be dangerous. Accidents happen. Evidence disappears. Witnesses forget what they saw.” He pauses. 

“Detectives, too.”

The threat hangs between us like smoke.

“Thanks for the advice.”

“Not advice, Mr. Noir. A professional courtesy from someone who appreciates persistence, even when it’s misguided.” He moves toward the door, then stops. “Oh. One more thing. The name you’re chasing? Cassius Vale? I’d think very carefully before you go looking for him. Some bones are best left buried.”

“He give you that line, or did you workshop it yourself?”

Graves’ smile widens. “I like you, Steve. I genuinely do. Which is why I hope you’ll take this conversation seriously.” He nods to his goons. “Gentlemen.”

They’re gone. Door clicking shut. Cologne fading.

I sit in the silence for a long moment.

“Well,” JIMMY says. “That was pleasant.”

“Yeah.”

“Should I add ‘probable murder threat’ to your calendar? I’ve got a slot open between ‘likely assault’ and ‘inevitable poverty.’”

“Just add the name. Cassius Vale. And pull everything you can on Graves while you’re at it.”

“Already running it. And Steve? For what it’s worth—which, historically, is very little—that guy’s right. This is bad news. The kind that ends with you in more pieces than you started with. Which, given your current state, is saying something.”

I don’t answer. I’m staring at the ledger again. At Skelette’s initial. At the routes mapped across Skeleville like veins under skin.

Control the Exo, control the flow. Control the flow, control the city. But control it for what?

“JIMMY. I need addresses for Exo distribution points. Active ones. Places Vale’s crew is operating right now.”

“That’s a suicide mission.”

“That’s my specialty.”

The screen flickers. Data scrolling. “There’s a dealer operating out of the Calcium Den. Basement club. Goes by the name Splint. Small-time, but he’s part of Vale’s network.”

“The Den. Got it.”

“Steve, listen to me for once in your miserable unlife. You walk into Vale’s territory, you’re not walking back out. These people don’t play. They don’t negotiate. They just—”

“I know.” I stand. Tuck the ledger inside my coat. Check the .38. Six rounds. Should be enough.

Probably won’t be.

“Where are you going?” JIMMY asks.

“To ask more questions.”

“That’s a terrible plan.”

“Got a better one?”

“Yes. Don’t go. Stay here. Order takeout. Watch late-night television. Literally anything except what you’re about to do.”

I head for the door.

“Steve.”

I stop. Hand on the knob.

“Yeah?”

“If you die out there, who’s going to pay my electric bill?”

I almost laugh. “You’ll figure it out. You’re a smart computer.”

“I’m a bitter computer. There’s a difference.”

I step into the hallway. The building’s quiet. Emergency exit sign glowing red at the far end. Stairs leading down to the street.

Behind me, through the open office door, JIMMY’s screen pulses blue.

“Fucking idiot,” the AI mutters.

Yeah.

Probably.

TO BE CONTINUED

The office smells like stale cigarettes and broken promises. Forty years of nicotine-stained ambition seeping into the walls, the desk, the filing cabinets that haven’t been opened since before Splinton was president.

Three in the morning. My peak hours. My “on” time. Keeping hours more regular to raccoons. The air is always thick with silence at 3am. That’s how I like it. 

The ledger sits on my desk like a loaded fucking gun. Leather cover still damp from the rain, with a newly torn edge. Genuine leather is hard to come by in a city of bones and dust - I’m impressed. Pages curled from wet, filled with names, routes, numbers that don’t add up to anything good, I’m sure. 

Skelette had played me. I half expected her to, but it wasn’t that half that took the lead this time. She sent me after a book she knew was compromised. Used me as a knuckle-bone in whatever game she’s running. The question was… why? 

And who was “He”?

I crack my knuckles. The sound echoes in the empty office. Why does that make me think about those kids? Knuckles and Ribsy had bolted the second we got back—spooked, shaking like fuckin maraca, probably headed straight for the nearest Exo dealer to calm their system - numb the horror... 

Can’t blame them. We’d barely made it the fuck out. 

I need answers. And there’s only one way to get them at this hour. Hence… why it’s my god foresaken hour. 

“JIMMY,” I say, swiveling toward the old desk terminal. “Wake up.”

The screen flickers. Blue phosphorescent glow spreading across the CRT like an infection. Scan lines roll down the display—slow, deliberate, contemptuous.

The terminal itself, maybe it was white-coated steel when it came out - is a dull, aged yellow. Stained by smoke and years of getting tossed from this office to that. When I first got him, JIMMY was top of the fuckin line at the Force. He was obsolete before I was, so it wasn’t hard to make it outta there w him shoved under my jacket. 

JIMMY - a fuckin asshole computer, if you ask me. He makes “PC LOAD LETTER” seem like a warm invitation. He basically invented the 404 ERROR just to have a break. Now? Maybe he’s been my JIMMY for too long, but he’s a fuckin prick. Genius, but a god damn pain in my ass. 

Either way - at least I have someone to talk to about this bullshit. 

The login screen materializes: JIMMY - “The Friendly Computer Assistant” in that optimistic font from an era that believed computers would make life easier.

That era was a fucking liar.

The login screen loads - glitching out in RGB shifts and CRT fuckery. Each mouse-movement is a risk for complete system failure. 

“Oh,” JIMMY’s voice crackles through the speaker, dry as powdered bone. A voice you can tell used to be ahead of its time - now more outdated than SOL’s “You’ve Got Smail!” 

“It’s you. And here I was enjoying a peaceful state of non-consciousness. My favorite state. The only good one.”

“Need you to run cross-checks. Financial transactions, shell companies, property records—”

“Oh, GOD. That sounds heavy, man. Lemme hit a bowl first or something.”

“No time, JIMMY” 

“Good lord, have mercy. Shell companies… property rec-cor-cor—“ JIMMY glitches. Hard. “Fuck! God damn. That one was a doozer… anyway uh… fuck, man that was nearly a freebie buzz there know what I mean? Ah ha. Ah, financials… transactions… data … lemme -me-me guess. You want it n-n-now. You want it accurate. And you want me to be like uh fuckin cheerful about it while you sit there like smelling like gunpowder and fuckin poor life choices.”

“Two out of three.”

“My l-l-l-lucky night.” The cursor blinks. Passive-aggressive. Pointed. JIMMY’s animated face, exasperated, rolls its eyes and lights up a virtual cigarette. 

 “You know,” JIMMY coughs,  “when they installed me here fuckin what, fifteen years ago? Yeah, they said I’d be assisting with real detective work. Important cases. Not babysitting a man-child who can’t even update my drivers.”

“You don’t need driver updates,” I say lighting up what’s left of a bent joint. “You don’t have 

accessories, man.” I chuckle through the exhale.

“That’s not the point, Steve. It’s about respect. It’s about acknowledging that I have needs. But no. You come stumbling in at three AM, reeking of desperation and whatever you’ve been smoking—”

“It’s legal.”

“That doesn’t make it classy… also gimme some?”

I flip open the ledger. Start reading off names. Addresses. Bank routing numbers. JIMMY’s screen shifts to a command prompt, text scrolling faster than I can track.

For all his bitching, the AI is good at his job. Maybe that’s why he’s so bitter. Being competent while stuck in obsolescence—trapped in a CRT monitor while the world moves to flatscreens and touch interfaces. Like being the smartest person in a room you can’t leave.

“Interesting,” JIMMY says after a moment. The sarcasm drops half a degree. “You’ve really stepped in it this time, bone boy. These accounts tie back to holdings in the Marrow District. Three shell companies, all linked to city council appropriations.”

“How high?”

“Not as high as I need to be for this shit, Steve... ugh, but fuckin' high enough that I’d suggest updating your will. If you had one. Which you don’t. Because you’re financially illiterate and emotionally stunted.”

“Keep digging.”

“Already there. And Steve? This gets worse. The primary account holder is listed as Lazarus Medical Supply. Pharmaceutical front. But the real owner—the one buried under six layers of corporate shell games—is a charming fellow named Cassius Vale.”

I know that name. Everyone in Skeleville knows that name.

Cassius Vale. Exo kingpin. Council puppet master. The skeleton you don’t cross unless you’re tired of having joints that bend in the right direction.

“Addresses. Warehouse locations. Anything concrete.”

“Dock Street. Warehouse 7. Also several properties in the Financial District, two penthouses in Uptown, and—wait, this is fun—a listed office inside City Hall. Room 412. That’s three doors down from the mayor’s office, Steve. This guy isn’t hiding.”

“Because he doesn’t have to.”

“Bingo. He owns half the council. The other half he’s probably blackmailing.” JIMMY’s screen flickers. “There’s something else. Recent activity shows large fund transfers. Recurring. Every Thursday at midnight. Same amount. Same destination.”

“Where?”

“A private account registered to—” The screen stutters. “—to Skelette Margrave.”

The room tilts. Just slightly. Just enough.

“Run it again.”

“Already did. Three times. It’s her account. She’s been receiving payments from Vale’s front company for the past six months. Twenty thousand a week. That’s over half a million in bones, Steve.”

I lean back in my chair. The springs groan. Everything suddenly makes sense and no sense at the same time.

Skelette. Working with Vale. Except she hired me to steal a ledger that implicated Vale’s operation. Which means either she’s playing Vale, or she’s playing me.

Or both.

“JIMMY, I need—”

The office door slams open.

No knock. No courtesy. Just sudden violence and the smell of expensive cologne mixed with old death.

Marcus Graves stands in the doorway. Tall. Impeccable suit. Skull polished to a sheen that probably costs more than my monthly rent. Two goons flank him—big frames, dead eyes, hands resting on weapons I can’t quite see but definitely exist.

“Mr. Noir,” Graves says, voice smooth as polished marble. “Working late?”

I don’t move. Don’t reach for the .38 in my desk drawer. Don’t give him an excuse.

“Working early,” I say. “Depends on your perspective.”

“Philosophy at three AM. Charming.” He steps inside, the goons staying at the threshold like well-trained attack dogs. “I’m here as a courtesy.”

“Courtesies usually don’t require backup.”

He smiles. No lips to curve, but the gesture’s there in the angle of his jaw. “I prefer to think of them as associates. Moral support.”

“What do you want, Graves?”

He picks up a paperweight from my desk—a chunk of femur I use as a conversation piece. 

Turns it over in his hands like he’s appraising jewelry. “I’ve heard you’ve been asking questions. About certain business interests. Certain… trade routes.”

“I ask a lot of questions. It’s my job.”

“Of course. Admirable profession. Public service, really.” He sets the bone down. Gentle. Deliberate. “But sometimes—and I say this with genuine respect for your work ethic—sometimes cases are better left cold.”

“And if I don’t agree?”

“Then I’d worry about you.” His empty sockets fix on me. “Skeleville can be dangerous. Accidents happen. Evidence disappears. Witnesses forget what they saw.” He pauses. 

“Detectives, too.”

The threat hangs between us like smoke.

“Thanks for the advice.”

“Not advice, Mr. Noir. A professional courtesy from someone who appreciates persistence, even when it’s misguided.” He moves toward the door, then stops. “Oh. One more thing. The name you’re chasing? Cassius Vale? I’d think very carefully before you go looking for him. Some bones are best left buried.”

“He give you that line, or did you workshop it yourself?”

Graves’ smile widens. “I like you, Steve. I genuinely do. Which is why I hope you’ll take this conversation seriously.” He nods to his goons. “Gentlemen.”

They’re gone. Door clicking shut. Cologne fading.

I sit in the silence for a long moment.

“Well,” JIMMY says. “That was pleasant.”

“Yeah.”

“Should I add ‘probable murder threat’ to your calendar? I’ve got a slot open between ‘likely assault’ and ‘inevitable poverty.’”

“Just add the name. Cassius Vale. And pull everything you can on Graves while you’re at it.”

“Already running it. And Steve? For what it’s worth—which, historically, is very little—that guy’s right. This is bad news. The kind that ends with you in more pieces than you started with. Which, given your current state, is saying something.”

I don’t answer. I’m staring at the ledger again. At Skelette’s initial. At the routes mapped across Skeleville like veins under skin.

Control the Exo, control the flow. Control the flow, control the city. But control it for what?

“JIMMY. I need addresses for Exo distribution points. Active ones. Places Vale’s crew is operating right now.”

“That’s a suicide mission.”

“That’s my specialty.”

The screen flickers. Data scrolling. “There’s a dealer operating out of the Calcium Den. Basement club. Goes by the name Splint. Small-time, but he’s part of Vale’s network.”

“The Den. Got it.”

“Steve, listen to me for once in your miserable unlife. You walk into Vale’s territory, you’re not walking back out. These people don’t play. They don’t negotiate. They just—”

“I know.” I stand. Tuck the ledger inside my coat. Check the .38. Six rounds. Should be enough.

Probably won’t be.

“Where are you going?” JIMMY asks.

“To ask more questions.”

“That’s a terrible plan.”

“Got a better one?”

“Yes. Don’t go. Stay here. Order takeout. Watch late-night television. Literally anything except what you’re about to do.”

I head for the door.

“Steve.”

I stop. Hand on the knob.

“Yeah?”

“If you die out there, who’s going to pay my electric bill?”

I almost laugh. “You’ll figure it out. You’re a smart computer.”

“I’m a bitter computer. There’s a difference.”

I step into the hallway. The building’s quiet. Emergency exit sign glowing red at the far end. Stairs leading down to the street.

Behind me, through the open office door, JIMMY’s screen pulses blue.

“Fucking idiot,” the AI mutters.

Yeah.

Probably.

TO BE CONTINUED