Author: dimitry7

Beckett and his desk arrived on the 17th floor at precisely 9:04 a.m. The desk was a formidable beast of faux-wood laminate, and its squeaky caster wheels announced their presence long before the elevator doors slid open with a polite ding. Beckett, a man with a perpetually surprised expression and a small, defiant tuft of…

My name is Rex Hardigan, and I’m the best private detective in this city. Ask anyone. No one’s hired me in a decade. My office is a third-floor walk-up on the second story, a testament to my success and a symbol of my utter failure. I keep it neat as a pin, though the place…

Hawkett, the human embodiment of a meeting that should have been an email, presided over his desk at the ‘Consortium for Intangible Assets’ – a place where logic came to have a nervous breakdown. The door creaked open, and Mr. Pester entered, clutching a leather-bound folio to his chest. His unassuming appearance belied a terminal…

Reginald Sterling, a man whose intellect was a finely-tuned Stradivarius in a world of kazoos, considered the morning light slanting across his mahogany desk. It was, he mused, a perfect representation of Q4 revenue projections: promising, yet highlighting the dust on his Fabergé egg paperweight. He buzzed his intercom. “Penelope, my dear,” he began, his…