Imagine a tropical metropolis torn from its paradise and plunged into a glacial nightmare, where human passions boil beneath a crust of merciless ice. Welcome to Flume, the frozen heart of Lisbar, where fate plays with lives like an addicted gambler...
It was a night that cut through skin and crushed bones. And in this freezing chaos, I was just another misfit. A rusted bolt in a machine that no longer knew what it was trying to fix. But when I'm paid - and paid right - I move that gear, even if it's with one last shove.
I was standing outside the church downtown, admiring the baroque façade for a moment. The angels and cherubs looked like sleeping, powerless sentinels. My pipe released spirals of smoke, trying to warm the air like a hopeless dream. My trench coat could still handle one more battle against that cold, and the fedora stayed firm on my head, despite the icy wind howling like a blade of ice.
This city rotting: "It's not my problem," I repeated. It was my mantra, my wall. But walls always have cracks, and mine was an old priest and a ghost from the past.
---
It was supposed to be an easy case. A missing young man. These cases came like moths drawn to light - youths swallowed by gangs, sucked into Flume's underworld. But this wasn't just any kid. Racmo was the son of Ari, a man who saved my life when all I deserved was a grave. And I had promised, with the stench of death in the air and his eyes closing to an eternal sleep, that I would look after his son if the worst happened.
"Promise made, promise broken," I thought, the smoke filling my mouth and warming my skull. Since that day, the promise had hung over me like a sentence. Every ignored phone call from Father Aldo, every message left with my secretary, Rosângela, was a personal defeat. I told myself I wasn't ready, that it wasn't my place... but the truth is I was afraid. Afraid to face what was left of Ari's family. Afraid to see in Racmo's eyes the shadow of his father, and in Rosa's eyes, the pain of someone who had lost everything and now saw a man like me trying to replace the impossible.
This wasn't a job for a private detective. It was a job for a friend - and I didn't feel worthy of being called that.
---
The streetcar sped down the road, almost knocking me to the ground, tearing me from my thoughts. Some punks must have taken over that car. I could follow them, teach them a lesson...
I started thinking about the streetcar's route, I could catch those delinquents at the next block, it would be a good night run, good for the nerves, beating up punks is always good for the nerves... "It's not my problem," I said once more, as my eyes returned to the church door.
---
But I knew this case wasn't like the others. There was no money involved, only the weight of a moral debt that I carried like lead tied around my neck. And tonight, there were no more excuses. It was time to pay.
The priest was waiting for me inside, and I could see his silhouette through the colored stained glass. He was a good man, the kind who still believed there's redemption at the bottom of the pit, even for someone like me. But I wasn't there for redemption. I was there because the only thing worse than breaking a promise was not trying to honor it.
The tobacco had turned bitter; I was already smoking ashes. The smoke danced in the air before disappearing, swallowed by the icy wind. I tossed the pipe's ember, took off my hat, and climbed the church steps, each step echoing like a funeral drumbeat. I passed through the door, where the warmth of the church wrapped around me like an embrace I didn't deserve.
And so began Case 4937.
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