Jul 13, 2020 15:00:47 GMT
Post by achromatic on Jul 13, 2020 15:00:47 GMT
solivagant
Papers littered the front of his home, the space he called his office. It wasn't really much of an office space, just half of his living room he had created into a working area. His clients weren't picky, after all. Part of being a private investigator was simply being discreet, and having a home office was the perfect excuse for it too. Private investigation and his second job went hand in hand after all. He investigated in the day, and hunted in the night; life was a clockwork pattern he learned to enjoy, even if it rarely gave him the time to organize his space. Drawers cluttered with files and folders, pens and papers scattered around, a whiteboard with half-coherent thoughts and lists written in a messy scrawl...it wasn't all too different from his space in the hunters' headquarters.
The most recent case had been an interesting one. A socialite, well-known in the upper circles of the well-to-do, known to the elite for his extravagant parties, the mystery that came with it–the invitations were difficult to get, after all, and rarely did anyone spill what actually happened in these parties–and the web of connections this man seemed to have. Lucien Rasmussen. He seemed to know absolutely everyone, yet few knew of him, and even fewer knew what he did. He was an enigma, one not known to the wider world; he was a man of importance and yet no one knew what he did.
Except for a lone journalist it seemed. A young woman who had written an expose, claiming that the man's business dealings had a darker side to it, one that involved drug cartels and sex scandals and utter debauchery. Except when she had presented it to her boss, he claimed it was ludicrous to accuse such a man of these crimes, and when the man himself had discovered this, he threatened to sue her for libel, and for every dollar she had.
She promised to keep quiet after that. Except evidently not; she had gone to Tobias that night–a friend of hers told her that he dealt with extremes, and with cases of corruption–and here he was, filling a folder of his business dealings, following trail after trail. Absorbed in his work, he barely noticed his surroundings, unaware of the visitor he was about to receive.
Papers littered the front of his home, the space he called his office. It wasn't really much of an office space, just half of his living room he had created into a working area. His clients weren't picky, after all. Part of being a private investigator was simply being discreet, and having a home office was the perfect excuse for it too. Private investigation and his second job went hand in hand after all. He investigated in the day, and hunted in the night; life was a clockwork pattern he learned to enjoy, even if it rarely gave him the time to organize his space. Drawers cluttered with files and folders, pens and papers scattered around, a whiteboard with half-coherent thoughts and lists written in a messy scrawl...it wasn't all too different from his space in the hunters' headquarters.
The most recent case had been an interesting one. A socialite, well-known in the upper circles of the well-to-do, known to the elite for his extravagant parties, the mystery that came with it–the invitations were difficult to get, after all, and rarely did anyone spill what actually happened in these parties–and the web of connections this man seemed to have. Lucien Rasmussen. He seemed to know absolutely everyone, yet few knew of him, and even fewer knew what he did. He was an enigma, one not known to the wider world; he was a man of importance and yet no one knew what he did.
Except for a lone journalist it seemed. A young woman who had written an expose, claiming that the man's business dealings had a darker side to it, one that involved drug cartels and sex scandals and utter debauchery. Except when she had presented it to her boss, he claimed it was ludicrous to accuse such a man of these crimes, and when the man himself had discovered this, he threatened to sue her for libel, and for every dollar she had.
She promised to keep quiet after that. Except evidently not; she had gone to Tobias that night–a friend of hers told her that he dealt with extremes, and with cases of corruption–and here he was, filling a folder of his business dealings, following trail after trail. Absorbed in his work, he barely noticed his surroundings, unaware of the visitor he was about to receive.