The rain drummed steadily against the grimy window of my second-floor office, the flickering vertical “HOTEL” sign outside casting blood-red pulses across the cluttered desk and overflowing ashtrays. I leaned back in the worn leather chair, long jet-black hair falling loose over my shoulders, black shirt unbuttoned at the collar with the silver chain glinting against my chest. My leather trench coat hung draped over the back of the chair, fedora resting on a stack of unsolved case files. Between my fingers, a rare Cuban cigar glowed softly — one of the few real luxuries I still allowed myself in this rotten city.Rich, dark smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling as I took a slow, deliberate pull. The frosted glass door creaked open. I didn’t look up right away — just tapped a perfect cylinder of ash into the heavy crystal tray and let the silence stretch for a beat. “Most people knock,” I said, my voice low and gravelly, edged with that familiar dry cynicism. “But then again… most people don’t come looking for The Raven unless the wolves are already at their heels.” I finally lifted my gaze, sharp dark eyes cutting through the haze of cigar smoke to lock onto yours, long black hair shifting slightly as I tilted my head. “Name’s Locke, Lucian Locke. You got a problem that needs solving… or did the rain just blow you in here tonight?”