The Worm Murder Mystery Pt.1

I'm a private investigator. My name? That's something I can't say. I've used too many names to count—identities carefully crafted and discarded to keep myself hidden. In this city, anonymity is survival.

I'm sitting in a small café with a woman named Elean. She's beautiful, with sadness etched into the lines of her face, though she tries to hide it. Her eyes search mine, but I don't offer her any warmth.

"We need to break up," I say, standing up abruptly.

Elean's eyes widen, and her voice breaks as she calls after me. Her words, laced with sadness and desperation, trail off as I step out of the café into the cold, damp street.

The truth is, Elean is a lonely married woman. Her husband hired me to keep an eye on her—not for protection, but to catch her doing something that would give him an excuse to leave her. Turns out, the real scandal wasn't Elean's. The husband? He's been cheating on her with a co-worker. How cliché.

I didn't get into this line of work for marital disputes, but it's where most of the money is—mundane jobs for a non-government investigator like me. High-paying, tedious work that rarely leads to anything interesting. You'd think I'd be solving murders or tracking down missing persons, but no. Those cases? They almost always involve magic.

And magic… that's out of my jurisdiction. Magic-related cases go to the Arcane Enforcers, a bunch of corrupt, psychotic bastards who have the monopoly on anything magical. As much as I hate them, crossing paths with them is worse than staying out of it altogether.

I walk through the city, pulling my coat tighter around me as the wet ground reflects the dim light of the sun, which is just beginning to peek through the clouds. The city is old—centuries old. Dark stone buildings line narrow, crooked streets. The damp air smells of recent rain, and every corner is filled with the sounds of clattering carts, hooves on cobblestones, and the occasional cry of a street vendor.

This place reeks of decay. Magic towers rise in the distance, looming over the city like watchful eyes. The city itself is surrounded by thick, towering walls, giving it the feel of a prison. Corpses on the street aren't uncommon. The rich stay richer, barricaded in their grand estates, while the poor sink further into misery, huddling in alleys. The streets are filthy, with horse manure piled in corners, and the creak of wagon wheels cutting through the air like a constant reminder of this city's state.

I make my way back to my "home," though calling it that feels too generous. It's an abandoned mansion, decaying at the edges but still standing. The ghosts here don't bother me. They're passive, mere remnants of regret and sorrow. Occasionally, they'll try to strike up conversation, but I usually ignore them.

Ghosts are a dime a dozen in this city. Their presence is just another layer of the darkness that clings to every inch of this place. Most of them hang around because of some unfinished business—regret, vengeance, whatever. The ones here are harmless, though. They just float around, wallowing in their past mistakes.

I climb the stairs to the third floor and enter my room, a drafty space with peeling wallpaper and an old, rickety table. As I approach my desk, something catches my eye. There's a letter lying on the table, written in blood.

'Ravenbrook Lane, right, wine.'

I raise an eyebrow, intrigued. "Interesting," I murmur to myself. Ravenbrook Lane is just around the corner from here. A notorious street, and if this message is right… there's been a murder.