Nightfall Investigations-Origins

SPONSOR

My makeshift bed for the night had been a cardboard box I'd dug out of a nearby trash bin. My pillow, a tattered sweatshirt that had seen better days. The night had been unkind, showering me with a chilly rain that soaked through my clothes and chilled me to the bone.

With a yawn, I stretched, at the same time raising a hand to push a moist chunk of hair out of my face. Before I’d even got good into the yawn, it was cut short as I gave a small yelp, my muscles spasming and protesting having spent an uncomfortable night on the cold hard ground. I was heartily sick of this dance I’d been playing for weeks now; my pockets as empty as my stomach.

Blinking sleep away, as my stomach growled, my gaze searched the alley. The outer walls of the buildings around me were a canvas for the urban art of the many who shared my fate. And within each display of creativity, I looked for a spark, a sign, a whisper of destiny.

With a sigh I stood, rolling up the tattered sweatshirt and tucking it under my arm like a game winning football. Afterward, stepping out of the alley, I began strolling along the store fronts, my hungry gaze taking in the coffee shops and bakeries; my stomach protesting the tease.

As I wandered a little further down the street, a help wanted sign in one of the building's windows practically jumped through the glass and frantically waved at me. In my haste, I tripped, briefly glancing down at the sidewalk and looking for an invisible crack before I stumbled my way forward toward the sign, my soggy sneakers squelching with every step.

Stopping before the door of the business, I read the name Nightfall Investigations. I didn’t know a damn thing about investigating, but my stomach was letting me know it didn’t give a shit about my knowledge…it wanted food!

As I pushed the door open, a bell tinkled, announcing my presence.

The office was a hodgepodge of antique and modern, making me wonder at the business owner's personality. As a figure emerged from the shadows, all I could think was good-heavens-almighty. The man who now stood be fore me was tall, dark, and... a fucking God. I couldn't decide if it would be proper to drop to my knees and worship or not; but lord I wanted to.

"What ya need, kid?" the God asked, his voice smooth and warm like whiskey, with a hint of something darker, something that sent a shiver down my spine.

"A job," I blurted, the chill of the night still clinging to my bones.

His eyes, a piercing shade of midnight blue, ran over my derelict clothing, then he peered into my eyes, as if he could read my soul through them. "What's your name?"

"Sponsor Echo," I said, extending a hand that trembled slightly.

He took it, his grip firm but not crushing. "Cyne Nightfall," he remarked, his eyes narrowing at the coldness of my hand within his.

He gestured to a chair that looked like it had seen better days. "Tell me, Sponsor, what do you know about investigating murders?"

I shrugged. "Not a damn thing.”

His eyebrows shot up, the only indication he was surprised. "Interesting," he murmured, his voice a velvet purr. "And what brought you to my doorstep?"

"Desperation," I replied, giving him a wry smile. "And a touch of destiny, maybe?"

He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Desperation is a powerful motivator, but it can also be a liability. Why should I hire you?"

I met his gaze, my own unwavering. "Because you need me."

The silence stretched. Cyne studied me, his expression unreadable, before finally stating, "Alright, Sponsor Echo, I'll give you a chance. But know this: the world of a private investigator is not for the faint of heart. Are you squeamish?"

"You mean like blood and guts?" I asked him.

Cyne’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but something close enough to make me uneasy. “Among other things,” he said. “Some people don’t handle the sight of death very well.”

“I’ll call the Ghostbusters,” I shot back.

That earned a small smirk. Standing, Cyne crossed to a filing cabinet in the corner, the kind that looked like it should have collapsed decades ago. Papers littered the top—old photos, yellowed notes, and something that might’ve been a bullet casing. He rifled through a drawer and pulled out a single manila folder, dropping it onto the desk between us.

“You start now,” he said.

I blinked. “Now? As in, this very second?”

“As in before you change your mind.” He gestured at the folder. “Client came in this morning. Missing person. Normally I’d handle it myself, but… consider this your trial run.”

I eyed the folder like it might bite me. “You want me to find someone? I don’t even have a phone.”

“You’ve got eyes, don’t you?” His tone was mild, but those midnight eyes of his pinned me in place. “And sometimes, fresh eyes see what old ones miss.”

I hesitated. My gut said walk out, find another sign, maybe something involving a cash register and free coffee. But there was something about Cyne...an energy that buzzed beneath the calm exterior. The air in the office felt charged, like a storm that hadn’t decided whether to break or pass you by.

I reached for the folder. The moment my fingers brushed the paper, a prickle shot up my arm, like static electricity. I jerked slightly.

“Problem?” Cyne asked.

“No,” I said quickly. “Just… dry air.” Lie. The paper felt wrong. Warm, almost alive, as if it had a pulse.

I opened it. A photograph stared back at me; a woman in her thirties, dark hair, sharp smile. The word missing was scrawled in ink across the top. Beneath it, an address, and a date from three nights ago.

“She vanished after leaving a bar downtown,” Cyne said. “No police report. The client doesn’t want attention.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

He tilted his head. “You’ll learn not to ask that question so quickly.”

“Right,” I muttered. “So… I just go there and look around?”

“You go there and see what you feel,” he answered.

“Feel?” I laughed. “Like… a vibe check?”

He smiled this time, faint but real. “Something like that.”

I tucked the folder under my arm. “And if I find her?”

“Then we talk.” His gaze lingered on me. “If you don’t… then we really talk.”

The thought, comforting, ran through my mind.

As I turned to leave, I paused at the door. “You got a coat or something?” I asked, “because I’m one good gust away from pneumonia.”

He reached into a closet and tossed me a black jacket. Heavy, warm. It smelled faintly of cedar and smoke.

“Don’t lose it,” he ordered.

I pulled it on. It hung loose but felt like armor. “Thanks, boss.”

“Don’t call me that,” he said automatically.

“Sure thing, boss,” I replied, and ducked out before he could respond.