The afternoon sun glinted off the glass towers of the Financial District, but Madison Sloane was only interested in the glint of the seasonal sale at Valenti’s. She stepped out of the mall, her arms laden with bags that cost more than a mid-sized sedan.
"I told you, Tiffany," Madison said, her phone tucked between her shoulder and her ear as she clicked her heels toward the North Parking Structure. "If he wears square-toed shoes to a gala, he’s a sociopath. My father has zero taste in men. Honestly, I’m beginning to think he picks these suitors just to see how fast I’ll make them cry."
She reached her custom-painted pearl white convertible and hit the fob. The lights winked at her.
"Hold on, I’m losing you in the garage," she muttered, stepping into the cool, concrete shadows of Level 4.
The garage was unnervingly silent. Usually, the hum of luxury engines filled the air, but today, it felt like the building was holding its breath. Madison stopped. Twenty yards away, near the ledge overlooking the city, three men stood in a circle around a man she recognized: Arthur Vance, her father’s biggest real estate rival.
Vance wasn't fighting. He wasn't screaming. He was standing perfectly still, staring into the eyes of a man wearing a lavender silk suit.
The man in lavender held a silver pocket watch, but he wasn't swinging it. He was just whispering, his voice a melodic, terrifying drone. "The air is so heavy, Arthur. Don't you want to be light? Don't you want to fly?"
Madison froze. She watched in horror as Vance, a man known for his iron will, smiled a vacant, glassy smile. He climbed onto the concrete barrier.
"That’s right," the man in lavender purred. "Fly."
Vance stepped off. There was no scream—only the sickening, distant thud from the street far below.
Madison’s phone slipped from her hand, clattering loudly against the concrete.
The three men spun around. The man in lavender—the Hypnotist—narrowed his eyes. To his left, a man with a long, jagged scar across his cheek unsheathed a folding karambit that hissed as it caught the light. To his right, a tall, gaunt man with a telescopic case over his shoulder simply Adjusted his glasses.
"Well," the Hypnotist said, his voice oily and smooth. "It seems we have a critic. Take her."
"Oh, no," Madison whispered. She dropped her shopping bags, kicked off her three-inch heels, and bolted for her car.
Central Precinct – Two Hours Later
Detective Michael Mann sat at his desk, staring at a lukewarm cup of black coffee and a stack of paperwork that threatened to crush his soul. He checked his watch. 5:00 PM. In ten minutes, he was supposed to meet his parents for dinner, which really meant he was supposed to meet "Cynthia," a woman who apparently owned three poodles and a gallery.
"Mann! My office! Now!"
Michael sighed, grabbed his coat, and walked into the Captain’s office. He stopped short.
Sitting in the guest chair was the wealthiest power couple in the city: Howard and Eleanor Sloane. Howard looked like he was about to sue the entire planet, and Eleanor was clutching a silk handkerchief.
"Detective Mann," the Captain said, looking stressed. "The Sloanes have had a... situation. Their daughter, Madison, witnessed the Vance 'suicide' this afternoon."
"It wasn't a suicide!" Madison snapped. She was sitting in the corner, wrapped in a police blanket, looking remarkably composed for someone who had just seen a man jump to his death. She looked Michael up and down, her eyes lingering on his slightly frayed tie and the scuffs on his duty boots. "And who is this? He looks like he buys his clothes at a surplus store."
Michael didn't blink. "Detective Michael Mann, ma'am. And if you're the witness, you should be in a taped interview room, not the Captain’s office."
"The Sloanes have requested a private security detail," the Captain interrupted, giving Michael a pointed look. "And after reviewing your family’s history of service—and your father’s recommendation—the Sloanes believe you are the 'type' of man they want around their daughter."
"The 'type'?" Michael asked, his voice flat.
"Stable. Disciplined. Professional," Howard Sloane said, standing up and shaking Michael’s hand with a grip like a vice. "We need someone who can keep her safe, Detective. And someone who isn't... easily distracted."
"He means someone who won't hit on me," Madison sighed, standing up and dropping the blanket. She was wearing a designer dress that cost more than Michael's car. "Don't worry, Detective. You aren't really my type anyway. You're a bit too... 'grumpy uncle' for me."
Michael looked at the Captain. "Sir, I’m in the middle of a racketeering case."
"The racketeering case is on hold," the Captain said. "You're on Madison Sloane. 24/7. Until we bag the Hyper Gang. Take her to the safehouse."
Michael stared at Madison. She was currently checking her reflection in his silver shield, pouting.
"Fine," Michael said, grabbing his keys. "But if she talks as much as she looks like she does, I’m charging the city for extra earplugs."
"I heard that!" Madison chimed, following him out. "And for your information, I’m an excellent conversationalist. We can start by talking about that haircut. Who did that to you? Was it a dare?"
Michael didn't answer. He just walked faster toward the parking lot, wondering if it was too late to join the Coast Guard.
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