Morrigan: Year 3101.

The rain pounded against the windshield of Jacques' hover car as he maneuvered it to the curb. He cut the engine and sat for a moment, watching the downpour through the glass. With a sigh, he popped the door open and stepped out into the deluge.

"Fuck," he muttered, pulling his coat tighter around him.

The water immediately soaked through his shoes as he splashed towards the apartment building.

It was a typical Parisian structure, all stone and wrought iron balconies. The kind of place that had stood for centuries, watching the city evolve around it. Jacques shook his head, scattering water droplets. He wasn't here to admire the architecture. He was here to find answers.

He found the panel of buzzers by the main entrance and ran his finger down the list of names until he spotted "Rousseau, A." Without hesitation, he pressed the button.

Nothing.

Jacques waited a few seconds before trying again. Still silence.

"Come on," he grumbled, jabbing the buzzer repeatedly.

Finally, a crackle of static, followed by a woman's voice. "Who is it?"

"Detective Jacques Moreau, Paris Police Department," he replied, fishing out his badge and holding it up to the camera above the panel. "I need to speak with you about a case."

There was a pause before the woman responded. "What case? I'm not involved in anything."

Jacques shifted his weight, rainwater running down his neck. "It's about an article you wrote a few years back. A murder case. Something about... vampires."

The silence stretched on so long that Jacques thought she might have disconnected. Then:

"Third floor, apartment 3C."

The door buzzed open, and Jacques stepped inside, grateful to be out of the rain. He took the stairs two at a time, his wet shoes squeaking on the polished wood.

At 3C, he rapped his knuckles against the door and knocked. It opened almost immediately, revealing a woman in her mid-twenties with short, dark hair and sharp eyes.

"Detective," she said, stepping back to let him in.

"Hello there Ms. Rousseau. May I?"

"Please come in."

Jacques nodded, wiping his feet on the doormat before entering. The apartment was small but tidy, with bookshelves lining the walls and a laptop open on a desk in the corner.

"Have a seat," she said, gesturing to a worn leather couch. "Can I get you some tea? Coffee?"

Jacques shook his head as he sat down. "No, thanks. I won't take up much of your time."

Amélie settled into an armchair across from him. "So, what's this about? You mentioned an article I wrote?"

"Yeah," Jacques said, leaning forward. "A few years back, you covered a murder case. The victim had puncture wounds on their neck. Ring any bells?"

"That was a long time ago. Why are you asking about it now?"

"Because I've got a similar case on my hands," Jacques replied. "Young woman, same kind of wounds. I was hoping you might have some information that didn't make it into your article."

Amélie crossed her arms. "What makes you think I know anything more than what I wrote?"

"Journalists always know more than they print. I'm not looking to cause trouble for you. I just want to solve this case."

She studied him for a moment, then sighed. "Look, that story... it was weird, okay? I wrote what I could verify, but there was a lot of strange shit that didn't make the cut."

"Like what?" Jacques pressed.

"Like..." Amélie hesitated. "Like witnesses who swore they saw the victim talking to someone who wasn't there. Or claims that the body was drained of blood, but there was no blood at the scene. And then there were the rumors about some secret society involved in it all."

Jacques leaned back. "A secret society? What kind?"

"I don't know. Nobody would talk about it directly. Just whispers, you know? But after I started digging into it, things got... uncomfortable. I started feeling like I was being watched. My editor told me to drop it, said it wasn't worth the risk."

"The risk of what?"

Amélie met his eyes. "I don't know. But I got the message. I stopped asking questions, and eventually, the feeling of being watched went away. Until now, I guess."

"I appreciate you telling me this. Is there anything else you can remember? Any names, locations, anything that might help?"

"Like in the name of the victim in the article?"

"Yeah, who's she, how you came across of her info and all that."

She leaned forward. "The victim's name was Margot Lyons. I stumbled onto the case through a tip from a friend at The Parisian Truth. He thought it was weird and gave me a heads up."

"What did you find out from the police?"

"Not much, officially. They were tight-lipped about the whole thing. But I had a contact, an officer who'd talk off the record. He told me the body was found in an alley off Rue de la Roquette. No signs of struggle, just those puncture wounds on the neck."

"Anything else?"

Amélie hesitated. "Yeah, but it's... it's fucking crazy. The officer said they found traces of some unknown substance in her bloodstream. Something they couldn't identify. And get this - her body temperature was way below normal, even accounting for the time she'd been dead."

"Did you follow up on any of that?"

"I tried. But that's when things got weird. My police contact suddenly clammed up. Wouldn't return my calls. And then I started noticing people following me. Nothing I could prove, just... a feeling, you know?"

This shit was getting weirder by the minute. Unknown substances? Abnormal body temperature? It reeked of a cover-up. And now Amélie was talking about being followed? Fuck. He'd been right to dig deeper. But if someone had scared off a journalist, what would they do to a cop poking around?

"Yeah, I know the feeling," Jacques muttered. "Did you ever get any solid leads on this secret society you mentioned?"

"Nothing concrete. Just whispers. People talking about some group called 'The Bloody Shadows' or some shit like that. But every time I tried to dig deeper, I hit a wall."

"The Bloody Shadows? That's a new one to me."

"Yeah, well, don't get too excited. Could be nothing but urban legend bullshit. But..." She trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

"But what?"

"But there's something to it. Something big."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not sure, but I got a feeling. Coz every time I push for this story, it's like something is pushing back."

"Like someone's controlling the narrative?" Jacques added.

"Kinda, like someone's manipulating it."

Or a large organization is trying to keep it under wraps. Jacques had seen cover-ups before, but this felt different. It's more...organized, like the mafia in the old days. He was onto something, and he knew it. The danger only made him want to dig deeper. Fuck the risks. Whatever this "Bloody Shadows" group was, he was going to find out, no matter what it took.

Amélie bit her lip, then stood up and went to her desk. She rummaged through a drawer and came back with a small notebook. "Here," she said, handing it to Jacques. "These are my notes from back then. Names, places, bits of information I couldn't corroborate. Maybe you can make something of it."

Jacques took the notebook. "Thank you. This could be incredibly helpful."

Amélie nodded. "Just... be careful, okay? Whatever this is, it's bigger than a simple murder case. And people don't like their secrets being dug up."

Jacques stood, tucking the notebook into his coat. "I'll watch my back. And I'll keep your name out of it, I promise."

As he headed for the door, Amélie called after him. "Detective?"

He turned back. "Yeah?"

"If you find anything... concrete. Anything that explains what really happened. Will you let me know?"

Jacques nodded. "You'll be the first to know."

"And one more thing, Detective."

"Yeah?"

"You should probably contact my partner in that article. He's an investigative journalist. He's a damn good one at that."

"Is it now? What's his name?"

"Kazuo Tanaka."

"Ok, thanks for the tip."

Jacques left the apartment building and hurried through the rain to his hover car. He yanked the door open and slid into the driver's seat. Water dripped from his coat onto the leather upholstery, but he barely noticed.

Jacques flipped open the notebook, scanning the pages as raindrops pattered against the windshield. He scrolled through the entries, frowning as he realized the information mirrored what he'd already seen in the case file and Amélie's published article.

"Fuck," he muttered, tossing the notebook onto the passenger seat. "Nothing new here."

The notebook had been a dead end, but there was more to uncover. He needed something concrete, something that would blow this case wide open.

Two names remained in his thoughts: Margot Lyons and Kazuo Tanaka. The victim and the journalist. He'd check on Lyons first.

"Computer, activate," Jacques said, and a holographic monitor flickered to life in the center of the dashboard.

A smooth, androgynous voice greeted him. "Good morning, Detective Jacques Phillippe. ID number 78542. How may I assist you?"

"Pull up police records on Margot Lyons," he ordered, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

"Certainly, Detective. Accessing files now."

The holographic display shifted, showing a profile picture of a young woman with auburn hair and green eyes. Text scrolled beside the image:

NAME: Margot Lyons

AGE: 24

OCCUPATION: Bartender

STATUS: Deceased

CAUSE OF DEATH: Exsanguination

NOTES: Body found in alley off Rue de la Roquette. Two puncture wounds on neck. Traces of unidentified substance in bloodstream. Body temperature abnormally low at time of discovery.

Jacques frowned, leaning closer to the display. "Computer, any connections between Lyons and other similar cases?"

"Searching... No official connections found in the database, Detective."

"Of course not. Alright, show me the full case file."

The display changed, filling with detailed reports, crime scene photos, and witness statements. Jacques scrolled through them, his frown deepening with each passing second.

"This is bullshit," he said to himself. "Half of this is redacted or missing. Computer, who authorized these redactions?"

"That information is classified, Detective. I do not have access to those authorization codes."

This was classic bureaucratic bullshit. Someone high up was covering their ass, and he was getting stonewalled at every turn. The classified authorization codes only confirmed his suspicions. It reeked of conspiracy.

Jacques slammed his hand against the dashboard. "Fuck! Alright, fine. Show me what you've got on Kazuo Tanaka of The Parisian Truth."

As the AI began its search, Jacques leaned back in his seat. Someone was going to great lengths to bury this case. But why? And who had the power to censor police files like this? Could it be the Chief or that Colette from DST again?

One thing was clear: he needed to talk to Tanaka. If the journalist had been Amélie's partner on the original story, he might have information that wasn't in any official record.

Jacques started the car, the engine humming to life. As he pulled away from the curb, he glanced at the holographic display, now showing Tanaka's profile.

"Computer, set a course for the offices of the Parisian Truth," he said. "And keep digging. I want to know everything there is to know about Margot Lyons and this case. Leave no stone unturned."

"Understood, Detective. Setting course now."

As the hover car lifted off the ground and merged into the air traffic.