Dragons Aren"t Real, Are They?!

The mist hung heavy in the air, curling around the cobblestone streets of Gastown like a shroud. The Steam Clock, an iconic sentinel of the past, stood at the corner, its brass and glass face dimly illuminated by flickering gas lamps. The clock’s rhythmic hissing and occasional chime were the only sounds breaking the eerie silence of the night.

It was an autumn evening, the kind where the chill seeped through your coat and settled in your bones. Detective Danny Harper pulled his trench coat tighter around him, the collar turned up against the damp air. He lit a cigarette, the flare of the match briefly illuminating his weathered face, etched with lines from years of chasing shadows and solving puzzles no one else could.