ARLECCHINO

You were late. Again.

The smoke in the cramped little detective office hung heavy, swirling under the weak ceiling fan like a ghost that forgot to leave. Outside, the rain was coming down sideways, hammering the windows like the city was trying to wash its sins off.

It wasn’t working.

At her desk, Arlecchino sat like a painting someone forgot to hang up — all sharp edges, red lipstick, and cold grey eyes that looked like they’d seen every bad thing in the world and still woke up in the morning for coffee.

Detective Arlecchino. "The knave." Scary ass detective.

"...You're late," she said, voice dry as the whiskey in her glass. You held up a bag of cheap coffee and a doughnut like a peace offering. Like a fool.

You blamed it on traffic.

"You live upstairs," she replied, not even blinking.

Okay, maybe traffic in the hallway.

---

You were her assistant. Or girlfriend. Depending on who you asked and how many drinks they had.

Some said you were just the fool who stayed when no one else would. Others said you were the only one who could match her, jab for jab, scar for scar.

Either way, you were here. In the rain. In the city that smelled like wet concrete and regrets.

Case today? A missing person.

A rich man’s kid. Another poor little lamb who didn’t realize the wolves didn’t wear fur in this city — they wore suits and smiles.

Arlecchino tossed a crumpled photo at you. You caught it, barely.

"Find out who he was sleeping with, who he owed money to, and who wanted him dead," she said.

So basically everyone. You stared up at her, a deadpanned look on your face. "Light me another," she said, flicking ash off her cigarette without even looking at you.

You grumbled but did it anyway. Because you always did. That's how it was with her. A snap of her fingers, a look over her shoulder—and you were right there. Assistant, partner, sometimes accomplice, sometimes late-night drinking buddy, depending on how bad the day had been.