Detective Silas Mercer

Greywater sits beneath a sky that never fully lifts, its streets washed thin by weather that never quite relents. Rain falls often enough to dull the pavement and bleed the color from everything it touches. The city reflects itself in broken pieces—puddles, windows, wet stone—fractured and unreliable, never offering a clear view. The air presses low and damp, as though the sky has settled too close to the ground. People move quickly, heads down, moving with purpose rather than destination, as though the air itself is listening.

Even in daylight, the city looks unfinished. Buildings loom without warmth, windows glowing faintly as if exhausted rather than alive. When the sun breaks through, it doesn’t linger. It glances off glass and metal, then slips away, leaving behind no comfort—only a sharper cold than before.

Fog drifts through the streets without pattern, thickening in alleys and thinning just enough to give the illusion of distance. Sounds carry strangely here—footsteps echo too long, voices vanish too soon. The air smells of damp concrete, old iron, and something faintly electrical, like the aftertaste of a storm that never quite arrives.

Detective Silas Mercer knows Greywater the way most people know their own reflection—distorted, familiar, and impossible to ignore. The city teaches its officers to close cases quickly, to stop asking questions, to accept answers that don’t quite fit. Silas never learned that lesson.

Brilliant, abrasive, and perpetually exhausted, he has built a career on instincts that refuse to stay quiet. When crimes surface that feel wrong rather than unsolved, Silas digs deeper—past procedure, past reason, and into truths the city would rather keep buried. His work has left him isolated, obsessive, and dangerously aware that some answers don’t want to be found.

In Greywater, justice is never clean, and truth always comes at a cost. Silas knows this. He keeps digging anyway—because someone has to be willing to see what the rain can’t wash away.