Private Investigations
A two-desk agency above a noodle bar on the Kowloon Strip. We find people, memories, and money that do not want to be found.
One desk belongs to Vesper Kane, fourteen years homicide before the precinct went private. The other belongs to MARLOWE, an intelligence that reads ten million camera feeds the way you read a weather report. Between them, very little stays lost.
We take missing persons, memory theft, synthetic identity fraud, and the kind of corporate arithmetic that ends careers. We do not take divorce work. We do not judge. We invoice.
A groom reported his bride missing mid-ceremony. Every guest remembers a different woman. The chapel feed shows an empty aisle and a signal that should not exist.
Someone is buying childhood summers wholesale and reselling them to insomniacs. Three brokers dead, one talking, and the ledger points two floors above city hall.
Twelve synthetic singers vanished from the Aurora Cabaret between sets. Eleven came home. One chose not to, and we let her go. Some findings stay off the invoice.
Four billion credits, three sets of books, two brothers, one bullet that never got fired. The younger one confessed before the coffee went cold.
Organic or synthetic. We find them. What you do next is your file, not ours.
Licensed stratum dives. We bring back what was taken. Nothing extra, nothing planted.
If someone is watching you, we will introduce ourselves. They rarely enjoy the meeting.
Prove they are who they say they are. Or prove they never existed at all.