A narrow alley was flanked by a cluster of low two- and three-story buildings. Piles of long-uncollected garbage lined the walls, mingled with the rotting carcasses of stray cats and dogs alongside heaps of excrement, giving off a pungent, foul stench.
Aging gas pipes snaked across the exterior walls, which were covered in crude graffiti and obscene scribbles. Sewage overflowed from roadside drains, with scorching steam occasionally hissing out from below.
At nine in the morning, there were few pedestrians on the street. Most adults had gone out to earn a living to support their families, leaving only a few idle children peering in from the mouth of the alley.
This was Fox Lane, an ancient alley abandoned by the city.
It was so narrow that even carriages could barely squeeze through. In the buildings on both sides, dozens of families were crammed into every structure. Many landless farmers and day laborers without stable income rented rooms here, drawn by the alluringly cheap rent.
Many shady characters with questionable backgrounds also hid here. No one ever asked for identification, and even the police rarely ventured close, making it the ideal haven for such people.
But today was unusual. A swarm of blue uniforms was crawling through the area, mixed with three men in black suits who were overseeing the officers as they held up a photograph, knocking on every door in every building to question the residents.
Bang.
Another gunshot rang out—the third time already. That was the response they received for knocking.
The nature of the residents doomed this search to futility. “Don't know,” “Haven't seen him,” and “No such person” were the friendliest replies they got; the rest pointed them toward all sorts of dangerous traps or simply answered the door with a gun.
“Hey, you! Have you seen this man?”
Blue uniforms were also patrolling the street, stopping every passerby to show the photograph. Spotting a man in a flat cap entering the alley, an officer immediately stepped forward to block his path, brandishing the picture.
However, the man seemed to have poor eyesight. He squinted at it closely for a while before simply taking the photograph and holding it right in front of his face. Before he could get a clear look, another loud bang echoed from not far behind the officers.
Conditioned by stress, all the officers spun around instantly, drawing their guns and swords. But after searching around, they found nothing. When they turned back to resume questioning, there was no one behind them—the man in the flat cap had vanished without a trace.
“Cowardly bastard, at least leave the photo behind!”
The officers cursed angrily, left with no choice but to fetch another copy of the photo. What they didn't know was that just a few minutes later, a sneaky figure slipped out of the alleyway. Beneath a streetlamp beside the alley entrance, a gentleman in formal attire leaned against the pole, covering her face with a newspaper. He leaned in next to her and handed over the photograph.
“Damn it, you were right to worry. Those bastards actually did it.” Lowering the newspaper to reveal her wavy chestnut hair, Officer Natalie took the photograph, the veins on her forehead pulsing with anger.
A memorial portrait. Stained with blood.
“This can't just be written off as a conflict of duty. We have to find Donnie’s home before they do.” Looking at the narrow, cluttered alley across from them, the officer frowned helplessly and pondered aloud, “Maybe we should ask around nearby too. Someone might have seen him.”
“I’d rather not make a fool of myself like them—that’s an insult to a detective. Besides, I just followed the police on a lap inside. The people here are on high alert, and not a single one told the truth. Asking around like this is completely pointless. We need a different approach.”
“Do you have an idea? Tell me what to do, then. I'll follow your lead.” As she said this, the officer’s face flushed slightly, and she cast a quick glance at Lynch.
“I can guess why Donnie chose to live here.” Lynch waved for the officer to follow, leading her toward a shop across from the alley entrance called Luiste Cafe. “Fox Lane is the best-informed street in Rhine City’s underground.”
“Hiss... I get it. No wonder Donnie chose to live here despite reporters earning decent money. For his profession, a place teeming with information is the most attractive. Living here allowed him to get firsthand news immediately.”
“Exactly. That's why there are plenty of intelligence brokers and informants lurking around here, both openly and covertly. Ordinary people and the police would never know. I was only brought here by my informant back then—the deceased 'Drunken Peter'—so I've only been here once myself. I can't guarantee anything, but we can give it a try.”
As he explained, Lynch couldn't help but feel grateful that his predecessor had been a detective; otherwise, he wouldn't have had any way to access these underground information sources. The two entered the cafe and found a seat in a corner by the window.
There were no other patrons in the shop yet. As soon as they sat down, a waiter in a red vest approached carrying a menu.
Lynch felt a bit tense. This was the kind of intelligence trade he had only ever seen in movies. Having memories of it was one thing, but experiencing it firsthand was quite another.
Calm down. I need to stay calm. Taking a deep breath, he accepted the menu with a poker face and opened it.
“I'd like a cup of Luiste coffee—no cream or sugar, extra salt and citric acid.” Lynch put on a seasoned demeanor. “And for the lady, a cup of honey water—no honey, just water.”
The waiter glanced at Officer Natalie, immediately lost interest in her, and turned toward Lynch.
“One pound per cup. Double if blended with alcohol.”
So expensive.
Lynch recalled the cant: one pound per question, double for illicit intel.
Left with no choice, it seemed he’d have to bleed his wallet. Gritting his teeth, Lynch pulled out his coin pouch, fished out a one-pound banknote, slid it across the table, and pointed outside the window. “I want Donnie Narton’s address.”
The waiter was about to take the money, but upon hearing the question, he instantly pushed the bill back. “My apologies, sir, but we don't have Luiste coffee today.”
Hm?
Lynch froze, looking up at the waiter in surprise. The waiter maintained his professional demeanor, smoothly pulling back the menu.
“I've been here before.”
“I know, Mr. Levive. Three months ago, with Red-Nosed Peter. I served the two of you.” The waiter smiled faintly. “You pulled off quite a feat the day before yesterday, and the Levive Agency's name has already spread throughout Fox Lane. Whenever you'd like to visit for coffee in the future, you're always welcome.
“However, if you truly want to drink this cup of Luiste coffee today, you might want to try coming back tomorrow. It's too chaotic outside with so many police officers around; the shop isn't in the mood to brew coffee.”
“Because of them?”
“Mr. Levive, it was originally just an insignificant cup of coffee, and we’d love to do business with you to lay the groundwork for long-term cooperation. But we businessmen have never been fond of the police. With them taking such an interest in this cup of coffee, there’s no way we can sell it. If we sell to the wrong customer, we won't be able to stay in business. That is the rule of Fox Lane. So if you're truly interested, please come back when they lose interest.”
“Wait—”
Unfortunately, the waiter had already tucked away the menu and walked off without looking back. Lynch slapped his thigh in frustration, feeling irritated yet helpless.
“Those bastards. To think they'd manage to cause trouble for us like this... Couldn't they have kept a lower profile?”
“That man probably knows. Should I... interrogate him?”
“It's useless. Which informant hasn't been threatened before? Besides, if he makes up a lie on the spot, neither of us would know if it's true or false.” Lynch let out a disappointed sigh and muttered in distress, “Let me think of another way. Maybe... Hm?”
Their table was right beside the window, offering a clear view of the entrance to Fox Lane.
Several raggedly dressed children around ten years old were peeking around at the mouth of the alley. These were typical 'children of King District'—their presence could be found across every street and alley in Rhine City.
When he went in earlier to trick the officer out of the photograph, Lynch had already noticed them, but hadn't paid them much mind. Now, with the concept of intelligence trading filling his head, looking at them again made him suddenly realize who these little rascals were.
“What is it? Did you find something?”
“Let's go. I think I found a way.”
Lynch grabbed the officer's hand and bolted out of Luiste Cafe like the wind.
Rate on N.U.
