Whispers of the Past

Anya’s worn leather jacket felt like a second skin, a familiar weight against the late autumn chill that had settled over the city. The address led her to a dimly lit bar on the docks, a place usually frequented by those who preferred their shadows long and their conversations hushed. She signaled the bartender, a burly man with weary eyes, and asked for “Mickey.”

A moment later, a wiry man with a nervous twitch and eyes that darted around the room like trapped birds materialized from the gloom. Mickey. He’d been a reliable, if somewhat unreliable, source of information in the past, always for a price, and always with a disclaimer of ignorance that never quite rang true.

“Sharma,” Mickey rasped, his voice a dry rustle. He slid onto the stool beside her, keeping his back to the room. “Haven’t seen your badge around here in a while. Good thing or bad thing?”