It was half past seven in the morning.
Rain poured violently across the streets of London, drumming relentlessly against the windows as if trying to break through the old, stubborn buildings.
Inside a cramped office nestled on a narrow side street, Eleanor Crawford sat behind her worn-out desk, surrounded by towering stacks of paper files, each one reeking of the past.
Even in silence, she radiated presence—more than presence.
She was a woman who made the air pause for breath.
Her long black hair fell in soft waves, contrasting with the pale skin that had forgotten sleep. She wore a sleek black dress that clung to her slender shoulders, and around her neck, silver chains dangled with small, dark stones that looked like they were hiding secrets.
Her eyes—sharp and gray—sparkled with a knowing intelligence, and her crimson lips held a kind of elegance… and danger.
She lit her first cigarette of the day.
The smoke danced lazily in the air, just like the memories lingering in that office.
Behind her, sketches and strange paintings cluttered the walls—remnants of investigations that had long since turned to dust.
The office was chaotic, but the chaos made sense.
Much like Eleanor herself.