Library

Welcome to Gallifrey. There is no daylight in this city. There is only the night when the neon lights flash, and the deeper darkness after the neon lights go out. Here, the truth is the cheapest product in the sewer, everyone is selling it, but no one really wants to buy it. My name is Thomas Danai, but everyone who knows me calls me Tommy. The business card says "Private Detective," but in this city, that's just a decent-sounding term. My daily work is more of unspeakable "coordination" and "consultation" - helping people find missing creditors, investigating where her young husband spent the night last night for a rich wife, and connecting people who need to covert transactions. Not very glamorous, but it paid the rent and allowed me to drink whiskey on the rocks at the Alley Cat. Until Iron Hand Harry's only son died on the bed in a high-end apartment with his own knife in his chest. Harry Porpington, one of the few people in this city whose name speaks louder than the law. He doesn't just want the murderer's life, he wants a "why." And I, the detective who makes a living in the cracks of crime, was pushed into this whirlpool. But this is just the beginning. On Gallifrey, every death is not a period, but an ellipsis. It connects the closed doors of the office, the secret transactions in the warehouse, the tears of the blonde in the high-end apartment, and the answers that are forever silent at the bottom of the Red River.