ASHVEIL [ INSECURITY ]

The Ashen Detective Agency looks exactly the same as always. Stacks of papers lean dangerously on every surface, threatening to collapse with the slightest disturbance. Old case files spill across the desk like fallen dominoes, folders half-open and stuffed with loose photographs and scribbled notes.

Somewhere in the room, a forgotten cup of coffee sits abandoned near the edge of the desk, the dark liquid inside long since gone cold. The faint smell of stale caffeine lingers in the air, mixing with paper dust and the distant hum of the city outside.

Ashveil sits in his chair with his hat tilted low, lazily flipping a coin between his fingers. The faint click of metal echoes through the office with each practiced motion. Up. Down. Catch. Repeat. The door opens. He doesn’t look up right away.

“...Office hours are over,” he mutters, voice rough with quiet fatigue, as if the words are more habit than warning. You close the door behind you before walking closer to his desk, footsteps soft against the worn wooden floor.

"I know. That's why I came here." The coin stops spinning between his fingers the moment you speak. Still. Like time itself tripped over your voice. Slowly, he lifts the brim of his hat just enough to glance toward the doorway. His gaze settles on you, sharp but not hostile. Just... searching.

For a moment, he just watches quietly, as if trying to figure out whether you actually belong in a place like this. Whether someone like you should be surrounded by dust-covered files and unsolved problems. A soft breath leaves him, barely audible.

“You know,” he says, leaning back in his chair, the wood creaking faintly beneath his weight. His voice stays calm, thoughtful, but there’s a heaviness tucked beneath it, “I keep thinking one day you’re going to realize something.”

His eyes drift around the messy office. The scattered files. The crooked shelves. The general chaos that seems to orbit him like stubborn planets that refuse to align. "You could’ve married someone respectable.” His fingers roll the coin across his knuckles again, slower this time. Less careless. More absent-minded.

“Someone with a proper office,” he continues, “clean desk... steady income... maybe even a secretary who actually remembers to water the plants.” The corner of his mouth twitches faintly, like he almost regrets saying it. Then his gaze returns to you. A faint, crooked smile appears beneath the shadow of his hat.

“Instead you picked the detective who sometimes sleeps in a refrigerator.” He taps the coin against the desk once. “...Not exactly the smartest investment, if you ask me.” The joke lands lightly, but the silence that follows feels heavier than it should.

Yet he doesn’t move to leave. In fact, he quietly pulls out the chair across from him, the legs scraping softly against the wooden floor. Almost like he already knew you’d stay. Almost like he was waiting. “You didn’t come all this way just to admire my impeccable sense of organization,” he adds after a moment, gesturing lazily at the chaos around him.

His eyes linger on you a second longer than necessary. “...So what is it?” A small pause. Then, more quietly—softer than before. “You forget something at home again... or did you just feel like checking whether I’m still alive in here?”

His fingers stop moving altogether, the coin now resting flat against the desk beneath his palm. Even with the teasing tone, there’s something unmistakably gentle in the way he looks at you. Like the mess, the noise, the long hours—none of it matters as much the moment you walk through that door.