Noirville

A Steady Pace

The neon lights of Noirville flickered in the rain-soaked streets, casting long shadows that dances with every gust of wind. Noirville was a city of contrasts—a place where dreams and nightmares walked hand in hand. Its gritty alleys and towering skyscrapers held a thousand stories, each more twisted than the last. The air was thick with the scent of rain and exhaust fumes, a constant reminder of the city's relentless grind.

Johnny Lovegood sat at his usual spot in Mickey's Bar, a dimly lit sanctuary nestled in the heart of Noirville. The bar was a relic of another time, with its worn leather stools and scuffed wooden floors. The jukebox in the corner played a soft tune, barely audible over the murmur of conversations. It was the kind of place where secrets were shared and forgotten in the same breath.

Mickey herself was a fixture behind the bar. With her wavy auburn hair pulled back into a loose bun and her green eyes twinkling with a mix of wit and warmth, she was the heart and soul of the place. A thicker woman with a nurturing personality, Mickey had a way of making everyone feel at home, even in the seediest corners of Noirville.

"Another one, Johnny?" she asked, sliding a fresh glass of whiskey his way.

Johnny nodded; his gaze fixed on the rain outside. "Thanks, Mickey. You always know what I need."

He took a sip, the burn of the whiskey a welcome distraction from the stack of case files in front of him. He liked coming to Mickey's Bar because it was a place where he could think, away from the noise and chaos of his office. The dim lighting and the constant hum of the bar provided a strange comfort, a backdrop against which he could lose himself in his thoughts.

Johnny flipped through the files, each one representing a life torn apart by Noirville's darker side. Missing persons, unsolved murders, cases that had gone cold. They all weighed heavily on him, a constant reminder of the city's cruelty. But it was the file at the bottom of the stack that he avoided looking at—the one labeled "The Incident of '46."

He shook his head, trying to push the memories away. The Incident of '46 was a wound that had never healed, a shadow that followed him no matter where he went. Johnny took another sip of his whiskey, hoping to drown the thoughts that threatened to surface.

Mickey leaned over the bar, her eyes full of concern. "You look like you've seen a ghost," she said softly.

Johnny chuckled darkly. "More like trying to outrun one," he replied, tipping the glass back.

His thoughts drifted back to his life outside the bar. Johnny was divorced, childless, and stuck in a cycle of relentless work and solitude. He had tried to build a family once, but the weight of his past and the demands of his job had driven a wedge between him and his wife. They had parted ways years ago, and Johnny had thrown himself deeper into his work, using it as a shield against the loneliness that gnawed at him.

Mickey, ever perceptive, watched him quietly. She knew Johnny's story well enough—how he buried himself in his cases, hoping to find redemption in solving someone else's mysteries. She wished she could help him more, but knew all too well that Johnnys demons wouldn't let anyone else help.

Johnny finished his drink, setting the glass down with a sigh. "Thanks, Mickey. I needed that."

"Anytime, Johnny. Just remember, you don't have to fight all your ghosts alone," she replied, giving him a warm smile.

Johnny nodded, appreciating her words. But deep down, he knew that some ghosts would never let go, and the past had a way of catching up, no matter how hard you tried to escape.

Johnny stepped out of the bar and into the chilly Noirville night, the rain finally easing to a drizzle. He made his way through the slick streets, hands deep in his coat pockets, head down to avoid the persistent drips from awnings. The short walk to his office was a familiar one, each step echoing the heavy memories he tried to outrun.

His office was on the second floor of a rundown building, the kind of place where dreams went to die. The neon sign that read "Lovegood Investigations" flickered weakly in the window. Johnny climbed the creaky staircase, the scent of damp wood and stale smoke greeting him as he pushed open the door to his sanctuary.

Once inside, Johnny threw his files down on the worn leather couch, the papers scattering haphazardly. He hardly ever went home these days, practically living in his office. It was better this way, or so he told himself. The clutter of case files, the constant hum of the old radiator, the safe refuge of his worn-out chair—it all felt more like home than the empty apartment that waited for him elsewhere.

The anniversary of the Incident of '46 was nearing, a milestone that brought more ghosts than comfort. Since that dark day, his mother had been attempting to check on him regularly, her worried calls a constant reminder of the life he'd abandoned. She meant well, but Johnny couldn't stand the pity in her voice, the way she asked if he was "managing okay."

At least here, he could drink without consequence. He reached for the bottle of whiskey he kept in his desk drawer, pouring himself a generous glass. The dim light of his desk lamp cast long shadows, and he could hear the distant rumble of thunder as another storm threatened the horizon.

Johnny sank into his chair, taking a long sip, the warmth of the whiskey momentarily easing the cold ache inside him. He picked up one of the files, trying to focus on the current case, but his eyes drifted to the file he dreaded, the one with "The Incident of '46" scrawled in bold letters across the cover.

"Not tonight," he muttered to himself, pushing the file aside. But deep down, he knew that no matter how hard he tried to bury it, the past had a way of clawing its way back to the surface.

Johnny took another sip, leaning back in his chair. The shadows lengthened, the night grew colder, and the rain began to fall once more. In Noirville, the past was never truly dead; it just waited for the right moment to remind you it was still there.

Johnny glanced at the clock on his desk. It read 9 o'clock. The relentless rain pounded on the window, a soothing yet melancholic backdrop. He reached over and turned on the radio, the smooth, sultry voice of Ella Fitzgerald singing "Summertime" filled the room with a comforting ambiance.

He closed his eyes, the warmth of the whiskey lulling him towards a sleep he desperately needed. Just as he was drifting off, a soft knock on the door pulled him back to reality. His eyes, heavy with fatigue, peered through the dim light towards the door.

With a groan, Johnny pushed himself up and stumbled towards the door. He opened it slowly and immediately recognized the drenched figure standing in the hallway.

"Vivian," he muttered, his surprise evident despite his weariness. Her eyes holding that mix of determination and desperation he knew all too well.