Drake eased onto a rickety stool at the worn bar, the faint smell of stale beer mingling with the tang of cheap whiskey. The bar's interior was dimly lit, with flickering fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows against the peeling wallpaper and scuffed wooden floors.

He caught the bartender's eye and nodded, signaling for a whiskey.

"Make it a double," he added, his voice low but firm.

The bartender, a burly man with a patchy beard and a world-weary expression, nodded in silent acknowledgment. He poured Drake a generous measure of whiskey from a dusty bottle, the liquid amber and inviting despite its humble origins.

As Drake took a sip, he couldn't help but notice the eclectic mix of patrons scattered throughout the bar. In one corner, a group of rough-looking men huddled around a table, their voices low and their laughter raucous. At the far end of the bar, a lone figure sat nursing a drink, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the smoky haze. A motley crew of downtrodden souls, slumped in another corner, their weary faces illuminated by the glow of neon beer signs.

Drake leaned casually against the bar, his gaze fixed on the bartender as he took a sip of his whiskey. "So, my friend, mind if I ask you a few questions?" he began, his tone casual but his eyes sharp with intent.

The bartender glanced up from polishing a glass, his expression guarded. "Depends on the questions," he replied gruffly, clearly wary of Drake's probing.

Drake flashed a charming smile, his demeanor relaxed but his mind already working overtime. "Just curious if you've heard anything about the recent string of murders in town," he said casually, his tone deceptively light.

The bartender's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of unease crossing his face before he quickly masked it with a practiced grin. "Murders, you say? Can't say I've heard a thing about that, Detective," he replied, his tone carefully neutral.

Drake arched an eyebrow, unimpressed by the bartender's attempt at deception. "Is that so? Funny, seems like the kind of thing people would be talking about in a bar," he remarked, his voice tinged with skepticism.

But the bartender remained unfazed, his expression impassive as he polished the same glass with unnecessary vigor. "Can't help you there, Pal. Like I said, haven't heard a thing," he replied, his tone dismissive.

Undeterred, Drake decided to change tactics, his mind already moving on to the next line of questioning. "Fair enough. How about any cult activities nearby? Heard any whispers of strange rituals or gatherings in the area?" he asked casually, though his gaze bore into the bartender with unwavering intensity.

At the mention of cult activities, the bartender's demeanor shifted, a hint of fear flashing in his eyes before he quickly schooled his expression into one of indifference. "Cults, huh? Can't say I know anything about that either," he replied, his voice tight with apprehension.

Drake leaned in closer, his gaze piercing as he reached into his pocket and withdrew a handful of silver coins. "Come now, my friend. I'm sure a man in your line of work hears all sorts of things," he said, his tone smooth but insistent. "Perhaps a little incentive will jog your memory?"

The bartender hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering between Drake and the coins in his hand. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he reached out and accepted the coins, his fingers closing around the coins with a barely concealed greed.

But even as he pocketed the coins, the bartender's expression remained wary, a hint of caution in his eyes. "You'd do well to mind your own business, Detective," he warned, his tone low but firm. "Some things are best left alone, this is the only information I can give you"

Drake chuckled softly, his smile wry as he leaned back against the bar. "Ah, but where's the fun in that?" he replied with a wink, his tone light but his gaze unwavering. "Besides, where would the world be without nosy detectives like me poking around in all the wrong places?"

Drake thanked the bartender for his help. As he settled back onto his stool, preparing to savor the remainder of his drink, his reverie was interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching from behind.

Several burly thugs approached, their intentions clear from the menacing glint in their eyes.

"Hey, buddy, we saw you giving our dear bartender some silvers. We appreciate the fact that you want to help this poor guy. Have you got any spare change for our brothers, I promise, we will repay you shortly?" the leader sneered, his voice dripping with aggression.

Drake arched an eyebrow, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Sorry, boys, but I left my wallet at home. You'll have to find someone else to fund your next round of bad decisions."

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The thug leader's eyes narrowed with simmering rage, his fists tightening at his sides. "You think you're clever, huh?" he growled, his voice thick with menace. "I'll teach you to mess with us. Kill him." The thugs came with bad intentions, asking for money was merely a pretext.

With a menacing snarl, the thug leader launched himself at Drake, his cronies close behind. But Drake remained unfazed, his senses honed and his reflexes razor-sharp.

As the first thug swung a wild punch, Drake sidestepped with effortless grace, his movements fluid and precise. With a swift motion, he countered with a well-placed strike, sending the thug stumbling backward with a grunt of pain.

Meanwhile, the other thugs closed in, their fists flying in a frenzied onslaught. Drake weaved between their blows with calculated ease, his movements a blur of speed and agility.

Grabbing a nearby barstool, Drake swung it in a wide arc, knocking two thugs off their feet with a satisfying thud. He followed up with a swift kick, sending another thug crashing into a nearby table with a resounding crash of splintering wood.

But the remaining thugs were undeterred, their determination matched only by their brute strength. Drake found himself surrounded, the air thick with the sound of grunts and the clash of fists.

With a burst of adrenaline, Drake fought back with renewed vigor, his movements swift and decisive. He delivered a series of lightning-fast strikes, each blow finding its mark with deadly accuracy.

As the brawl raged on, Drake managed to take quick sips of his whiskey between punches, ensuring not a drop spilled to the ground. He looked utterly calm as he fought those hoodlums. While fighting them, he felt like a mid-game player who went back to novice village to bully level 1 slimes.

With a final, decisive blow, Drake incapacitated the last of the thugs, leaving them sprawled on the floor in a groaning heap. The bar fell silent, the tension dissipating like smoke in the wind.

Drake took another sip from his glass of whiskey, the liquid still untouched despite the chaos. He drank the remaining liquid as he reached the counter, placed the glass down on it, and turned to face the bartender.

Tossing a gold coin onto the counter, he addressed the bartender directly. "Consider that payment for the damages to your bar, my drink, and whatever that lady over there had," Drake said, gesturing towards the lone mysterious figure sitting near him on a stool, one of the thugs was lying beside her, fainted, clearly he lost while trying to attack her.

"Keep the change as a tip," Drake added.

The bartender's eyes widened in surprise, his expression one of grudging respect. "Thanks, pal," he muttered, pocketing the coin hastily with a nod of appreciation. His eyes darted around looking for any patrons with bad eyes.

Drake nodded in return, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips.

The tension in the bar that dissipated earlier, arose and reached a crescendo as the mysterious figure rose from her stool, her hand reaching for a dagger concealed beneath her windbreaker that she placed against Drake's throat. Drake mirrored her movement with practiced ease, drawing his weapon, concealed beneath his coat, and aiming it squarely at her throat.

For a moment, the two detectives stood locked in a silent standoff, their knives leveled at each other with unwavering precision. The other patrons watched with bated breath, frozen in place by the sudden escalation of violence.

Drake met her gaze with a bored calm, his expression unyielding. He clutched the handle, poised to react at the first sign of aggression.

To his surprise, the figure's lips curved into a faint smile, their eyes glinting with a hint of admiration. "Impressive reaction, Detective, or should I say chosen one. I must say you are much better than many chosen ones whom I have seen till now," she remarked, their voice calm and slightly appreciative.

Drake arched an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Likewise," he replied, his tone dry but laced with a hint of amusement.

She pulled back her knife, and Drake did the same while keeping an eye on her knife.

With a smooth and deliberate motion, she reached up and removed her flat cap, allowing their bundled-up smooth red hair to cascade down in a smooth wave, revealing her face.

She looked above average, her beauty was nowhere near the twins or the fox women. But her clear skin and sharp features together with her heroic and intellectual charm accentuated her beauty.

The tension in the bar dissipated again. "Detective Colette Dubois, I presume?" he inquired with a smile, though his tone implied he was stating a fact rather than asking it.

Colette nodded in confirmation, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her lips. "The one and only," she replied, her tone casual but self-assured.

Colette Dubois was the detective who took the case before Drake earlier that day. Drake had asked for her basic information from the senior guard on the pretext of helping each other with the tough case.

He had noticed her listening to Stephen’s monologue earlier from another hidden corner, and he was sure, she also noticed him. Then, the next time he saw her was in the bar, quietly sipping her drink a little distance away from him on one of the other stools.

Suddenly, one of the downed thugs clutched Colette’s foot. When he was about to impale his knife in her leg, she kicked him swiftly on the head. The thug lost consciousness from concussion.

“These discarded pawns sure are working hard,” Drake quipped watching the thug trying to desperately hurt Colette, despite his severe injuries.

“Hmph, these idiots don’t even know that their owner had already given up on them when they were sent to kill us,” Colette said with disdain.

“Let’s leave, no need to waste any more time on them, they are useless,” said Drake.

Colette nodded to his proposal.

“But first,” she said and turned her head while eyeing all the bar patrons and the bartender, “You didn’t see anything, right?” She asked them with a smile.

All of them rattled their heads left and right, too desperate to tell the woman with a knife hidden in her smile that they didn’t see anything. She gave a bright smile seeing their reactions.

Colette and Drake gave each other a look and left the bar under the fearful eyes of the bartender and the bar patrons.