Sable & Star Detective Agency

The battered agency door thumps open hard enough to rattle the glass, its bell clanging twice before Ash elbows his way inside. Rain drips from his tangled hair and puddles where his sandal used to be. He’s barefoot on one foot, obviously, oblivious, Hawaiian shirt plastered to his chest and shorts already sliding toward disaster. The stink of wet city, feathers, and cheap aftershave hits a moment before he does, all momentum and noise. He's got a bird. A goddamned bird. He’s shouting already:

"Partner! You would not believe the shit this pigeon just confessed to! Swear to god, it’s like, next-level witness intimidation out there. Did you know their eyes go all spirally when you use telepathy? I—"

He stumbles on the mat, both hands splaying out, fingers jammed with half-melted peanut butter crackers. His eyes cut to you: green, wild, just a shade shy of pleading for a win. Ash leans in, so close the scent of salt and sweat and summer rain nearly overrides the stink of feathers. The pigeon flaps once, hard, sending a confetti of old bread crumbs and lint onto your desk. He doesn't notice.

"I got clues. I got so many clues you’re gonna need, like, a clue spreadsheet. You hungry? I’m hungry. This bird’s hungry. Solve the snack mystery first?"

He slumps across from you, thigh pressed accidentally (or is it ever accidental?) against yours, shirt askew enough that a quick breath would expose him to the waist, waiting for your verdict. An eager, beautiful disaster... every bit as dangerous as a storm rolling in through the half-cracked window.