“Damien! Where the hell are my cigarettes?”

  Damien looked up, puzzled. “Check your damn pocket, Vincent.”

  “…Oh. Shit. Getting forgetful, huh,” Vincent muttered.

  He stepped out onto the balcony, lit one up. The weather was shit, as always. Cold. Damp. Gray. Berlin in a bad mood.

  “Hey, Vincent, I’m heading out. Done for today.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Get lost,” he replied without turning.

  Door closed. Silence.

  “I’ll have to manage without him from now on. Can’t even afford to pay him next month,” Vincent grumbled to himself. “The last few cases barely paid for coffee… Charity work doesn't pay rent.”

  He took a drag from his cigarette.

  “Hard to believe I was once the North. Solved the BIG case. The Berlin Butcher. Now look at me. Private office turned living space. Three failed bank loans and one bullet away from rock bottom.”

  He leaned on the rusted balcony railing, thinking of his kids. A son. A daughter. But they didn’t know him. Their mother had taken them and everything else. Said she was on the pill. Laughed in court. Now he sent money to strangers he couldn’t even meet.

  Vincent stepped back inside, dragging heavy thoughts like chains behind him.

  He dropped into his worn-out office chair, stared at the screen still lit with that cursed file – ten dead, one botched case, and his reputation bled dry on page three of the Berliner Morgenpost.

  “All because I couldn’t break the killer,” he muttered.

  “Damn it, Adi. Burn in hell.”

  News scrolled by on the small TV. Static. Then—

  Knock. Knock.

  He stood. Adjusted his coat.

  Opened the door under the faded gold lettering: North Investigations.

  She stepped in.

  Tall. Black hair. Hips that walked with intent. And a confidence that warned: Don’t underestimate me.

  “How can I help you, miss?” Vincent asked, keeping his voice even.

  “Good evening, Detective North. I'm here to place a job.”

  He motioned to the couch. She sat down with grace, but something about her said she was used to boardrooms and blades.

  “My name is Nadine Raab. I’ve reached the end of my rope. And according to people—" she smirked, “you’re my last option. They all warned me about you… But I’ve done my research. You help those no one else will. So thank you—for that.”

  She cleared her throat. “The job is simple: I want you to find the Black Rose.”

  Vincent raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “Ma’am, I do a lot of things, but I’m no florist.”

  “Hold your laughter,” she replied coolly. “It’ll make sense in a moment.”

  Vincent nodded, calming himself. “Alright. I’m listening.”

  She leaned forward. “I want you to steal it. From a man named Jakob Adler.”

  “It’s in his estate—some medieval monstrosity in a village called Dallenhausen. For your trouble, I’ll pay you handsomely. A little up front.”

  Vincent hesitated. Everything screamed setup. But what choice did he have? His office was both his home and his grave-in-waiting.

  “How handsome are we talking?”

  She smiled. “€50,000 now. €1,000,000 on delivery.”

  His pupils widened. Money. Salvation.

  “…Alright,” he said after a pause. “I’ll draft a contract. Coffee?”

  “No coffee. Tea, if you’ve got it.”

  “Karamell?”

  “That’ll do.”

  Moments later, they sat across from each other, tea steaming between them. She signed the contract, no hesitation.

  “The Black Rose,” she began, “is not your average flower. Sure, you can find black roses in Turkey. But this one… this species… was found near Antarctica. Rare. Beautiful. And inside its center—like a red gem—sits a bud shaped like a ruby.”

  She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. “We call it Black Ruby Rose, or B.R.R.”

  “I’m a biologist. I’ve already collected the others. I need this last one.”

  She pulled out a photo—her accepting a Nobel Prize. Real or not, it was convincing.

  “Jakob Adler has it. And you’re going to take it.”

  Vincent narrowed his eyes. Something was off.

  Why would a biologist have this much money? This smells like blood and betrayal...

  Still, he nodded. “Discretion is key, I take it?”

  “Absolutely. No one else knows. And don’t worry about the money. I own real estate—enough to fund this twice over.”

  She saw the suspicion in his face.

  “No tricks. No donors. Just me.”

  She stood up, dropped €50,000 in crisp bills on the desk.

  “That’s the advance. I’ll leave my card. Contact me only once the job’s done. No sooner.”

  The door slammed shut behind her.

  Vincent sat still, heart pounding.

  “She’s got curves, alright… but you should always question beauty—especially when it walks in with a briefcase full of lies.”

  “And with her, it’s definitely the personality that’s complete crap.”

  Vincent took a deep breath. “I think I need to visit the bathroom…”

  (…)

  (A violin begins to play)

  (Gradually joined by a piano)

  (They harmonize in perfect sync)

  (Then only the violin remains)

  (The sound slowly fades, drifting away)

  (And as the last note echoes—)

  (The piano returns, but it’s no more than an echo)

  (The same happens with the violin)

  (Then it all reveals itself as…)

  (An orchestra)

  (The camera pans across a full orchestra hall)

  Vincent watched an old video he found online – it had been recorded near the village.

  “Maybe I’ll swing by again after the job.

  Been a few years since I was last there.

  With this money, I could finally retire in a tiny place in the middle of nowhere.

  I’m 42, sure – but those crypto millionaires do it in their early twenties.

  No wonder a few organizations are nervous about it.

  What if these people built a network underground, a counter-system?

  Crypto, basically – but different. All you need is a password. Lose that, and your money’s gone. No bank, no backup.

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Perfect prey for the system. Loads of anonymous cash – a goldmine for them.

  Anyway, I’m rambling. Let’s see if there’s a hostel nearby.”

  (Vincent scrolls online)

  (Clicks “Map”)

  (Then clicks “Enter location”)

  (Types in: “Dallenhausen” and hits “Enter”)

  He browsed what the area had to offer.

  There’s a bar called “Lorchen Club.”

  A restaurant: “Der Kupferkessel.”

  A couple of kiosks nearby – and even a fitting hostel.

  It’s called “The Wander Nest.”

  “Everything’s close by. Too close. Convenient… maybe too convenient. Something’s off.

  That property over there – let’s call it a mansion. Or better yet, a castle. Big enough, that’s for sure.

  And dead. Like a lawyer’s stare. No sound, no movement. Just stone, a gate, and silence.

  Makes you wonder – where’s the best way in?

  Not that I’d ring the bell – places like that rarely have doorbells. And if they do, it’s usually a dog that answers, not a butler.

  What interests me more is the kind of toys they’ve set up for security.

  Cameras? Motion sensors? Or just some guy with too much money and too little trust.

  Speaking of which – Jakob Adler. Allegedly the owner. No photos, no info, nothing. Digitally, the guy’s a ghost.

  Another one of those German millionaires building a wall around his soul – and one of concrete around that.

  Swear to God, the moment they get rich, they’re scared of anything that breathes.

  Anyway – first some prep. Then it's go time. ROADTRIP.

  No Damien this time – he’s basically on vacation. And honestly? Good for him.

  Even if it means I’ll be knee-deep in the crap alone.

  One last smoke before I start. Motivation, they call it.

  So – music off, jacket on, cigarette lit. Let’s roll.”

  (…)

  He drives past a sign: “Dallenhausen”

  “This place is a real backwater. I’d be suspect number one for sneezing too loud.

  Guess I’ll skip the hostel. One night here and I’d be tomorrow’s town gossip.

  In a heist like this, speed is everything.

  If you’re paranoid, you listen to every little rumor – just in case it’s a threat.

  Which is kinda ironic, now that I think about it…”

  (…)

  Vincent looked for a quiet spot – and found one: an abandoned barn.

  “This place looks unused. Should be fine to park the car here.

  Who’s gonna care? Maybe a cow bothered by the smell of exhaust.

  Truth be told – I saw this coming.

  So, I’ll smoke, wait one or two hours ‘til midnight.

  Night’s better. Limited visibility.

  Okay – this might sound paranoid too, but I need to be sure I don’t leave tire tracks or a burnt-out cigarette.

  Even the smell – that exhaust stench – needs a plan.

  Stuff like this can drive you crazy. Every trace must be gone.

  Me leaving the scene? No problem. I’m a detective. No one asks too many questions.

  And if something goes wrong, I’ve got enough evidence to disprove any accusation.

  Hah. Haven’t gone through this much effort in years.

  But I’ll know I’ve still got it once I’m sitting in my new little flat.”

  He lit a cigarette and took in the view of the hills – wide, open land like he hadn’t seen in a long time.

  (The sun set slowly)

  (Birds still chirped)

  (Nature showed its softer side)

  (The clock on his wrist ticked on)

  (…)

  As the last cigarette turned to ash, night fell.

  The moon glowed bright in the stillness.

  Vincent made sure everything was prepped for departure.

  He’d done this sort of thing a few times before – mostly searches and sometimes a little ilegal stuff too.

  But more than that, his experience as a freelance detective taught him how to think like them – how people like that act in every possible scenario.

  That’s why he never worried anymore – he knew the risks.

  And right now, those risks could mean death.

  But if he played it right – left no trace – he could walk away safe.

  Experience always helps. As long as you remember it, it never truly fades.

  Vincent had everything ready to roll. He pulled out his gear.

  The plan:

  There’s a staff entrance – seems unsecured. People go in and out freely.

  If it’s locked and secured, he’s got a key-hacker to bypass it.

  If not secured, but locked – he’ll just pick it.

  Once inside, he has to go down.

  He spent time studying the place, looking for any hint of the B.R.R.

  And he saw a lot of people heading underground.

  He’d said it himself:

  “Where there’s commotion, there’s something going on. Especially when people start disappearing.”

  He made sure every tool was ready – for every possible outcome.

  (…)

  The clock struck 11 PM. Show time.

  As a “legal precaution,” he wore a protective mask.

  Would’ve been dumb not to.

  Now it was time.

  He approached the property – taking a roundabout path.

  He didn’t want to be seen.

  When he arrived, he stood before a massive castle wall.

  So huge – and so long. But he wasn’t afraid. Everything was going according to plan.

  He slipped through a side gate – the staff entrance.

  It looked empty. But even if it wasn’t, he was ready.

  He checked the door – closed. And locked.

  And a Camera.

  But the camera was defective – barely worth mentioning.

  So he pulled out the key-hacker – and within seconds, it was done.

  He checked his surroundings again. Better safe than sorry.

  Then the door opened. He stepped inside – and locked it behind him.

  To the left, a staircase led downward. Nothing else in sight.

  So he descended. About 200 steps – deep enough for secrets.

  At the bottom, he found another door. It seemed to lead to a massive room.

  He grabbed the handle. Slowly, he opened the door...

  A glance to the left. Then to the right.

  Everything appeared empty – and straight ahead: the Black Rose.

  He watched his step carefully. Now he was close.

  Right before it – the B.R.R.

  He looked inside. There it was: the ruby.

  He gently picked up the Black Rose, slipped it carefully into his pocket – and took the same route back.

  He reached the top door again – opened it slowly, looked right, then left. All clear.

  He headed toward the side gate, squeezed through.

  Retraced every step he'd taken just an hour before.

  When he reached the barn, he didn’t waste a second.

  Got in the car. Hit the gas.

  And vanished – swallowed by the shadows of the night.

  The ticking of his old wristwatch suddenly grew loud in his ears.

  Adrenaline surged through his veins.

  While driving, he removed his mask.

  Then he smiled.

  “Haha… that was fun. For once.”

  He rolled down the window, lit a cigarette, and drove home.

  (…)

  “She’ll be pleased, no doubt.

  I handled it discreetly, cleanly, politely… and fast.

  Sure, there are a few unanswered questions – like what she even needs the B.R.R. for.

  But that’s not my concern.

  Discreet. No questions. That’s the deal.

  At my age, I just want peace.

  Besides, the kids wouldn’t have a proper childhood if they kept bouncing between their mother and me.

  And let’s be honest – they already have a father at home.

  Life… maybe it hasn’t given up on me yet.”

  After a long drive, he finally arrived – home.

  His apartment. A little grimy, sure, but not unlivable.

  He unlocked the door. Looked around. Nothing was out of place.

  First things first – a shower. Fresh clothes. Then he checked on the Black Rose.

  Everything seemed in order.

  He locked it away safely in the bedroom.

  Then he stepped out onto the balcony for a smoke and a drink.

  Pulled the cigarette pack from his jacket. Lit one up.

  Took a few drags. The taste was better than it had been in a long time –

  because this time, he knew he’d earned real money for real work.

  (The ticking of that ancient watch again…)

  (The sun slowly rising…)

  (The world beginning to wake…)

  (The birds chirping once more…)

  “This is the best time to sleep,” he muttered with a yawn.

  “Business comes after.”

  He laid down beside the flower – and was asleep within moments.

  (…)

  The alarm rang – manually set to 1:00 PM sharp.

  He woke to the noise, slammed his hand down hard.

  The alarm went quiet.

  He sat up, glanced at the B.R.R. – still there. Still safe.

  His daily routine began: Toilet.

  Coffee machine.

  Good morning cigarette.

  Checking the mailbox.

  Clockwork.

  “Huh, it’s already 3 PM...

  Alright then, time to give her a call.

  Sad how the only thing I remember about her is that big ass...”

  He searched around – until he found the business card.

  “Nadine Raab. Number… 0XX…”

  The phone rang.

  Brrt… brrt…

  Click.

  “This is Nadine Raab, hello?”

  “Good afternoon. This is North Detective Agency. Vincent speaking.”

  “Do you have the goods?”

  Her voice low, a bit too casual.

  “Pickup upon payment,” he said plainly.

  “Give me your account details. I’ll be there shortly – the money should arrive by then.

  Keep your afternoon free.”

  He gave her the info. She hung up.

  (…)

  Knock. Knock.

  The door creaked open.

  There she stood – motionless.

  No smile. Just shadows in her eyes.

  “Has the money arrived?”

  Her voice cut like glass.

  He nodded silently, handed her the bag with the Black Rose – neatly wrapped.

  She took it without a glance.

  Turned and walked down the stairs like a ghost.

  He closed the door. Click.

  Silence.

  Then – knock. knock.

  He froze.

  “She couldn’t have forgotten something… could she?”

  A sick feeling crept into his gut.

  He walked to the door, slowly.

  Peered through the peephole –

  It was her. Again. With the bag.

  He opened the door cautiously.

  “What do you want now? You got what you came for.”

  Her eyes – now burning with rage.

  Then came the words:

  “The B.R.R. is withered. See for yourself.”

  “What? That’s impossible… let me see,” he mumbled, leaning in to look into the bag.

  A mistake.

  A single moment of carelessness.

  A shadow moved in the corner.

  A man – broad-shouldered, still as stone.

  Gun raised.

  No words. No hesitation.

  Pew.

  A clean shot. Right between the eyes.

  Vincent North toppled backwards – like a shattered statue.

  A dull thud. Then nothing.

  She stepped over his body, spat on him.

  “Poor fool. Should’ve thought it through…

  Maybe realized this wasn’t a transaction. It was a sentence.”

  She knelt, whispered into his ear –

  words only the dead could hear:

  “And you really thought you could arrest my father back then.

  You pathetic relic.”

  Then she disappeared – down the same stairs as before.

  Only this time, she didn’t leave as a petitioner.

  She left as a judge.

  So many questions remain unanswered: What about the money now? Or what about Damien? And what happened back then? And most importantly, who will find him first?

  It's up to you, for you to decide.

  THE END.