“Not the best way to start a conversation,” I replied, calm, casual. “How about we step outside, and I’ll give you my money there—before anyone does something they’ll regret.”
I could almost hear the grin spreading across his face, feel the tension in the air thickening. Then came the click, the unmistakable sound of a thumb pulling back the hammer. Adrenaline hit me like a shot of cold whiskey—this wasn’t a robbery. It was a hit.
Instinct took over. I dove to the side, the crack of a gunshot echoing through the room as a bullet ripped into the countertop where I’d been standing a heartbeat ago.
Without hesitation, I flung the scorching coffee into the assailant’s face. His howl mingled with the sizzle. Taking full advantage of his momentary distraction, I delivered a swift kick to his legs, sending him crashing to the ground with a satisfying thud. He hit the floor with a CRACK, his knee shattered. His gun skidded away. I kicked it out of reach.
“Who are you?” I demanded, my voice a growl.
The man’s voice was gritty, tinted with a thick New Amsterdam accent. I had him pinned, my fist clenched around his shirt collar. “You shouldn’t be snooping where you don’t belong,” he snarled.
“Yeah, well, I’m a nosy bastard,” I replied, tightening my grip. “What the hell is going on here?”
Before he could answer, the deafening sound of gunfire erupted in the small room. I dove for cover beneath the nearest table, the acrid smell of gunpowder filling my nostrils. As the shots rang out, I quickly realized they weren’t aimed at me.
Peeking out from my hiding place, I saw my attacker lying lifeless on the ground, two bullet holes marring his chest.
Who the hell were these people?
Silently, I slipped out the back door, sticking to alleyways and side streets to avoid any unwanted attention. A quick cab ride dropped me off a few blocks from my destination—Murphy’s. I approached with the same practiced caution, entering through the back in case anyone was watching the front.
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“Murphy!” I called out, but there was no answer. He was either dead asleep or out prepping for the night’s crowd. I hoped it was the latter as I climbed the stairs to my room on the second floor.
It was time for Frank.
Dread coiled in my gut as I knelt, prying up a loose floorboard to reveal a small box hidden beneath. Dust and dirt clung to the surface, mingling with memories I’d spent years trying to bury. With a steadying breath, I slid the lid open. Inside this makeshift coffin of my past lay my old private investigator’s permit and a faded black trench coat.
But this coat wasn’t just fabric—it was a relic from a war that left scars too deep to see, a forgotten battle no one spoke of anymore. A withered old woman in some backwater town insisted I take it after I saved her granddaughter’s life. That night was hell—demons tearing through the village like wolves among sheep, the sky a tapestry of fire and blood. Screams filled the air, chaos ruled, and I fought like a man drowning, grasping at anything to stay afloat.
I found the girl pinned under rubble, a demon closing in fast. One shot, one kill. Her eyes, wide with terror, softened into gratitude. Her grandmother, tears streaming down her face, pressed the jacket into my hands. “Protect you,” she whispered in broken English. “Keep you safe.”
What she didn’t say was the price. This jacket wasn’t just leather—it was Frank, a demon trapped in his own skin, bound to this coat, and a constant, unwelcome presence in my life. I swore I’d never use him again. But here I was, staring down the barrel of necessity. There was no one else who could help, no one else who spoke the twisted language of the Abyss like Frank.
I hated that it had come to this, that I had to rely on him, knowing full well the danger he brought. But the truth was, without Frank, I was flying blind—and in this world, that was a quick way to end up dead.
I let out a heavy sigh, resigned to the inevitable, and pulled the coat from the box. The moment it was in my hands, the familiar, unsettling connection snapped into place. Frank’s presence stirred in the back of my mind, as intrusive and persistent as ever. I tried to steel myself against it, but deep down, I knew I was out of options. I needed him. And that’s what I hated the most.
With another sigh, I pulled myself back to the present and slipped the jacket on. The weight of it settled on my shoulders like a dark cloud. Shadows clung to me, and my hands tingled with the pulse of dark energy, like I was holding a live wire.
A familiar voice slithered into my mind, smooth and smug, like a jazz tune you couldn’t shake in a smoky, forgotten bar.
Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. The illustrious detective graces us with his presence. Here to take credit for my handiwork again, Jack?
“Shut it, Frank.”