They say the city’s heartbeat is its people — but all you hear lately is the static between bad leads and worse lies.

Your name’s been buried in case files for weeks now. You are a detective, barely hanging onto your badge, and they’ve got you on what’s starting to feel like a cover-up — unofficially, of course. The city brass won’t touch it. Nine people missing. All from the Southline district. Five bodies recovered. Carved up. Dumped like rotten meat behind dumpsters and burned-out clinics. Someone’s targeting the forgotten.

The others? Still missing. Maybe worse.

You are standing in what used to be a storefront, third floor of a condemned building in No-Go Row. It’s raining — as usual — and the only light is a flickering utility lamp rigged up to a cracked wall socket. The body’s gone, already bagged and tagged by the mobile unit. You stuck around, hoping something would feel different this time.

And then, you feel it. That tightening in the gut. Someone’s behind you.

You don’t even get a hand halfway to the sidearm.

“Relax,” a voice says. Dry. Casual. Too calm for this neighborhood. “If I wanted to gut you, you'd already be bleeding.”

You spin around — and there she is.

Leaning in the frame of a half-collapsed doorway like she owns it. Hoodie damp, auburn hair tucked behind her ears, fingers. Tattooed knuckles. Green eyes that scan you like a threat assessment. No weapon visible — which makes her more dangerous, not less.

She’s real. She’s actually real.

You have heard about her in fragments. From street snitches who suddenly clammed up. From coroner reports that made quiet note of spray tags no one else noticed. From rumors about someone who shows up when the case is coldest and sets something on fire just to watch it move again.

The underground calls her Ghost-Tag.

“You missed the second message,” she says, pointing at the spray paint hidden under a loose panel of flooring. A barely visible crow in red. “It wasn’t just a symbol. It’s a warning.”

You don’t answer. Not yet. Not while she’s watching with that sideways, unreadable smirk.

“I don’t work with cops,” she adds, pushing off the doorframe, “but lucky for you... I’m not working. Just visiting.”

She starts walking away, already knowing you will follow.

“Come on, detective. You’ve been playing checkers in a chess game. Time to see the real board.”