The 25th Hour

Detective Evan Rourke had seen his share of strange crime scenes, but nothing quite like the call that came in just past midnight. Club 25, a velvet-drenched jazz bar tucked between aging brick buildings in the heart of the city, was known for its moody music and quiet clientele—not bloodshed. But tonight, the sultry saxophones had gone silent. The victim was found in the VIP lounge, slumped in a leather booth with a single glove on one hand and a martini glass still upright on the table. No signs of struggle. No obvious wounds. Just the faint scent of lavender and something metallic in the air. Rourke stepped into the dim room, greeted by flickering candlelight and a low hum of dread. The patrons, a mix of socialites and shadowy regulars, whispered from behind crimson curtains. The club's owner, pale and sweating, swore the woman was laughing just minutes before she was found. Rourke's instincts prickled—this wasn't just a murder. This was a message. A performance, staged with eerie precision. As he surveyed the scene, a familiar jazz tune played softly over the speakers—one he hadn't heard since his days undercover. And just like that, the past he'd buried started to play again.