Jaq Hook and The Adventure Of The Jade Dragon

It is a strange thing, being a private cop in a world that insists it already knows everything. Most days I sit with the glow of a screen on my face, watching misinformation swirl like cheap smoke, some lonely blogger spinning storms out of boredom, chasing likes the way moths chase porch lights. Folks read it, believe it, get riled up, and then reality arrives like a cold wind through a cracked window. But the street does not care about rumours or digital ghosts. Out there, the world has weight. Out there, truth has teeth. Even in a city that swears it has no private guns, the nights can turn mean. Some cases burn hot, some freeze the marrow, and some, well, some drag you straight through the kind of hell that does not bother announcing itself. You just feel the temperature drop, and you know you are in it. And still, you walk. Because someone has to. My name is Jaq Hook. From my office window, three stories up, I get a clean sightline to the Gastown steam clock. It is not ancient, maybe fifty years if you count kindly, but if those brass lungs could shape their chimes into words, they would tell you more stories than the city ever admits aloud.