The rain in Chicago didn't wash anything away; it just turned the city's filth into a grey slurry. I was sitting in a booth at 'The Frozen Valve', a dive bar where the heat was a suggestion and the drinks were a gamble. Across from me sat Moretti. He was a man who wore a three-thousand-dollar suit to a place that smelled like wet dogs and desperation.

Between us was a plate of cold sliders and a pile of fries that looked like they'd been fried in engine oil.

"You're a hard man to find, Marlowe," Moretti said, his voice a smooth, dangerous purr.

"I'm not hiding," I replied, lighting a cigarette. "I'm just not looking to be found."

Moretti looked at the sliders. He pointed to one with a manicured finger. "I call this one 'The Canary's Last Song'. Do you know why?"

I didn't. But I knew the type. He was playing a game.

"Because," Moretti continued, "the man who cooked this for us is currently lying in a shallow grave in the South Side. He talked too much. Just like your informant did."

The air in the booth suddenly felt ten degrees colder. I looked at the food. The sliders weren't dinner; they were a message.

"And the fries?" I asked, my voice steady despite the sudden spike of adrenaline in my chest.

"The 'Frayed Nerves of a Private Eye'," Moretti smiled. "Salty, brittle, and about to snap."

He leaned back, the neon sign of the bar casting a flickering red glow across his face. He wasn't just mocking me; he was telling me that he knew every move I'd made for the last three weeks. He had the informant, he had the evidence, and now he had me in a room where the only exit was guarded by two gorillas who looked like they'd been carved out of granite.

"You've got a choice, Marlowe," Moretti said. "You can finish your meal and walk out of here with a check for ten thousand dollars. Or you can keep playing the hero and become the next item on the menu."

I looked at the "Canary's Last Song". I thought about the dead man in the South Side and the truth that was still buried somewhere in the city's frozen gut.

I picked up a slider and took a bite. It tasted like ash.

"I've always hated sliders," I said, staring him straight in the eyes. "Too small to be satisfying. Just like your threats."

Moretti's smile vanished. The game was over. The real work was about to begin.

*** **Objective Tensor Code: [OTMES_v2: M1=6.0, M6=8.0, N1=0.7, K1=0.5, TI=42.3, theta=180°]**