Shadowplay

- Part 1 -

This case, already cold, was your last chance of staying afloat. Your mind never wandered besides the nights you'd drink yourself to sleep. Dressed in a long dark coat, scarf, and tan deerstalker, you trudged through the murky streets of Memphis. A passing cab drenched you in a street puddle. This is the life of Detective Theodore Jamison.

Amidst the rambling alleyways and towering buildings, each step felt heavier than the last. He was a has been, and he knew it. The neon lights flickered above, casting shifting shadows that danced upon the cobblestones, every corner held a story waiting to be unearthed.

Jamison stepped into the dimly lit bar, the familiar scent of whiskey and cigarette smoke enveloping him like an old friend. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the shadows that clung to just about every corner, the murmur of conversation punctuated by the clinking of glasses. He saw the polished wooden counter where he and his more successful agent friend, Colonel Francis 'Franky' Millard, usually held court.

Franky was a smooth operator, always impeccably dressed despite the scars and severe burns that crossed his face. A reminder of his wartime past. As Jamison approached the bar, he spotted Franky already seated, a half-empty glass of whiskey in front of him.

The bartender, a stout man with a rugged face, nodded silently as Jamison took the seat next to Franky.

"Rough day, Teddy?" Franky's gravelly voice cut through the haze of the bar, tinged with a mixture of concern and inebriated whimsy.

Jamison grunted in response, signalling the bartender for a whiskey. He didn't need to answer; Franky knew the answer as well as anyone. Those two had been friends for years, bonded by their shared experiences and the cases they'd cracked together. The cases Jamison gradually gave up on.

"You look like hell, old pal," Franky remarked with a smirk. His eyes portraying a hint of sympathy beneath the veneer of sarcasm.

Jamison sighed and placed his hat on the table, running a hand through his long dishevelled hair, exhaling slowly. "You're one to talk." he retorted, gesturing toward the scars that marred Franky's face.

Franky chuckled, raising his glass in a mock toast. "True that, friend," he admitted, taking a sip of his drink. "But you know me, Teddy. I bounce back."

Jamison nodded, his gaze wandering to the mirrored wall behind the bar where the reflections of patrons blurred into indistinct shapes. The bar was a paradigm of the city itself. full of secrets, alliances, rivalry, and betrayals lurking beneath its surface.

"Speakin' of troubles..." Franky's gaze would linger on the amber liquid swirling in his glass. "Sally-Mae ain't getting any better," He sighed, his voice tinged with concern as he glanced sideways at Jamison.

"She's been a lot friskier lately though, I'll give 'er that. Not a second goes by where she's not tryna go all the way with me. I ain't complaining though."

Jamison's brow furrowed slightly at the mention of Sally-Mae. He took a slow sip of his whiskey, letting the warmth slide down his throat before responding, his voice a low murmur in the dimly lit bar.

"Yeah, I've heard," Jamison admitted, his thoughts momentarily drifting to the unsettling episodes Sally-Mae had been experiencing lately. "Dolores is worried. Says she's been... different. More distant. It's like she's slipping further away."

Franky nodded in understanding, his expression serious despite the casual facade he often wore. "You think it's still them delusions acting up? I swear that woman is schizophrenic."

Jamison shrugged, a sense of helplessness creeping into his tone. "Could be. But she's probably still on edge since the miscarriage. It's only been two months, and grief sticks with you. I'm nothing but a washed up detective, Franky. I don't know anymore."