By Michael Kelman Portney

The city never sleeps, but it sure knows how to keep its secrets. I’ve been called “The Detective,” though I’m not sure if that’s a badge of honor or a target on my back. Either way, I did what I did. Don’t ask me to spill every detail—the truth is a slippery thing in these parts, and it’s best not to go dredging up answers you’re not ready to hear.

Streetlights cast long shadows on the slick pavement, and the hum of late-night traffic serves as a reminder: nobody’s completely innocent, and nobody’s completely guilty. Somewhere between the two lies the real story. I’ve spent more nights than I can count walking that narrow line, always one step away from stepping off into the unknown.

Folks assume the world runs on black and white, but in my line of work, gray is the only color that matters. I’ve seen confessions that come too easy, alibis that hold just enough water to keep sinking ships afloat, and eyes that dart when you push the wrong button. The official reports always read neat and tidy, but life on the ground is anything but.

I did what I did. Maybe it was necessary, maybe it was out of desperation. Doesn’t much matter now. The city moves on, oblivious to the footprints we leave behind. Still, there’s a certain comfort in that low fog rolling in, obscuring the messy bits we’d rather not shine a spotlight on. Sometimes, it’s the only way to keep peace with yourself.

They’ll keep calling me “The Detective,” I suppose. Let them. The real story lies in how much you’re willing to see when the lights go out. Because in this town, nobody’s hands are spotless—and the only way out of the darkness is to keep your eyes open, no matter how heavy the gloom might get.