It all started like every other disaster in my life—with a woman way out of my league.

  Liralin Morgan sat across from me at Gluciano's, an upscale gluten-free Italian restaurant overlooking the East River. It was the kind of joint where the waiters spoke with accents thicker than frozen tiramisu. Liralin was wearing the hell out of a little black dress that turned every head in the restaurant. Her hair was so black it looked blue in the light and fell just past her shoulders in perfect waves. She had almond-shaped eyes, the color of worn dollar bills, and when they narrowed she sort of looked like a cat calculating its next pounce.

  Those eyes were locked on me, of all people.

  I caught a fifty-something banker type at the next table over giving me the once-over with an expression that screamed: What the hell is SHE doing with HIM? Fair question, pal. I was wondering the same thing myself.

  Jaime Gates, thirty-seven years old, half-blind without the thick glasses perched on his nose, twenty pounds overweight in all the wrong places, and with the fashion sense of someone whose wardrobe came exclusively from the Target bargain bin. The kind of guy who, at his age, gets those pitying looks from all his married friends who've stopped trying to set him up with their "great" single friends. That’s who she was with tonight—me.

  "You're doing it again," Liralin said, taking a sip of her wine.

  "Doing what?" I adjusted my glasses, a nervous tic all the way back from elementary school I'd never managed to shake.

  "That thing where you disappear inside your head and look like you're calculating the statistical probability of spontaneous human combustion." She leaned forward. "Are you not having a good time?"

  "No! I mean yes, I am. Having a good time." I fumbled with my water glass. "Just thinking about how different this is from our first date."

  She laughed, and the sound made something warm unfurl in my chest. "You mean when we sat through an entire movie without saying a single word to each other? That date?"

  “It wasn’t that bad,” I argued. “We talked afterwards, didn’t we?”

  “We said ‘goodbye.’ That doesn’t count.”

  "You know what was better? Our second date," I said. "I don’t think I’ve ever played that much Street Fighter in one sitting." Liralin and I had gone to a VR arcade in Chinatown and hogged a Street Fighter sim so long a line formed, causing management to boot us mid game. We’d argued who would have won that last match for days after. It’s what pushed us from only texting to talking on the phone regularly.

  "I still maintain I would have won. My Chun-Li is too strong."

  "Your Chun-Li couldn't handle my Ryu's hadouken spam."

  "Absolutely shameless." She pointed her fork at me accusingly, emerald eyes narrowing into that feline look I'd come to... well, not love. Too soon for that. But definitely appreciate. "I'll get my vengeance next time."

  Next time. The words hung in the air between us.

  Three dates. Three evenings spent with a woman I'd met online six months ago, when we'd both commented on the same obscure Reddit thread about discontinued breakfast cereals. Six months of late-night text conversations and info-dumping about our special interests (mine: true crime podcasts and the old insurance fraud cases; hers: Swedish death metal and obscure indie games). Six months of gradually working up the courage to suggest meeting in person.

  And now here we were, on date number three, and I had a mission. Tonight was the night I was going to kiss Liralin Morgan.

  The young, dark, and uncomfortably-handsome waiter appeared at our table, breaking my train of thought. He addressed us both but stared at Liralin as he spoke, "Would either of you care for dessert this evening?"

  I looked at Liralin, who shook her head slightly. "Just the check, please," I said.

  When the leather folio arrived, I pointed to it and asked, “Can I get this?”

  She raised an eyebrow, thought about it for a beat, then asked, "How about we split it?"

  I nodded. "Sure, that works."

  She reached out and gently grabbed my hand. "Thank you for asking first," she said, her voice softer now. "And for not fighting me on it. You'd be surprised how many guys would."

  “No problem,” I said, unable to suppress my smile.

  We each placed our cards in the folio, and I felt a small victory in having navigated that potential minefield successfully. One step closer to mission accomplished. On to phase two.

  The rideshare crawled through Brooklyn's late-night traffic. Outside the window, the city lights blurred into streaks against the darkness. A massive digital Nexus billboard dominated an entire building side, their slogan glowing in blue and white: "REDEFINING REALITY." The sight of it sent a small surge of pride through me.

  "What's that smile about?" Liralin asked, catching me staring at the billboard.

  "Oh, nothing," I said. "It's work stuff. Boring insurance adjuster things."

  "Yeah? Try me, mister insurance man."

  I hesitated. The case was confidential, especially with the hearing tomorrow. But the way she was looking at me made me want to impress her, just a little.

  "Let's just say I might have made a breakthrough on a big case." I tried to keep my voice casual.

  "The fraud one you mentioned last week?"

  "That's the one."

  She shifted closer, her thigh pressing against mine. "Is this good for you?"

  "Um. Possibly career-defining," I said, swallowing hard. Leg. Touching mine. "If it plays out how I think it will."

  "Going to catch the bad guys?" The corner of her mouth quirked up.

  "Maybe. There's a court thing tomorrow. I have to testify."

  "So that’s why you've been so distracted tonight." Her fingers found mine in the darkness of the backseat.

  "A little," I said. My heart was hammering against my ribs. "Mostly I've been thinking about…" You. Say you, stupid.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "Is it a big company?" she asked, filling the silence. "The fraud case, I mean."

  "Pretty big, yeah." I nodded, grateful for her question. "But I really can't talk about the details. Confidentiality agreements, testimony procedures, all that bureaucratic nightmare stuff. But thanks for asking. Really. I appreciate it."

  "Of course." She smiled and squeezed my hand. "I like getting to know you."

  The car slowed to a stop outside her apartment building, a renovated warehouse in East Williamsburg’s industrial sector. It was after bedtime and the oil-stained street was empty. The driver, some giant Russian guy named Khalid, apparently, didn’t say anything, opting to sit quietly while Liralin and I played out a scene from every Rom-Com ever.

  "This is me," she said, but she didn't move to leave.

  I cleared my throat. "Can I walk you to your door?"

  She looked with a devilish smile that sent chills up my spine, and said, "You'd better."

  Ho–ly–crap. I awkwardly reminded Khalid to wait for me and walked Liralin inside.

  The hallway to her apartment was dimly lit, with exposed brick walls and the kind of industrial piping that signaled "trendy" and "expensive." I was way over my head here. Each step felt like walking through molasses, my brain rehearsing what I'd say, how I'd lean in, over and over.

  She stopped at apartment 4B and turned to face me, keys dangling from her fingers. This was it. My heart was racing so fast I felt dizzy. It didn’t matter, it’d just make leaning forward easier.

  I took a deep breath, stepped forward, and led with my lips.

  Liralin’s hand pressed flat against my chest, stopping me. My stomach dropped. Oh, no. You idiot—

  "Would you like to come inside?" she asked softly. Her emerald eyes smoldered with…desire? Desire for me. To come inside. Her apartment. Inside. Me.

  Relief and excitement crashed over me like a wave. This was better than I could have hoped for. "Yeah," I managed to say, my voice embarrassingly hoarse. “That’d be cool.”

  She unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping into darkness. I followed, caught a brief glimpse of sleek furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the distant Manhattan skyline—then the world exploded.

  A bolt of white-hot pain shot through my lower back, electricity arcing through every nerve ending in my body. My muscles seized. I couldn't scream, couldn't move, couldn't do anything but drop to the floor like a marionette with cut strings.

  Through the haze of pain, I saw heavy boots step into view. Large hands grabbed my arms and legs. Khalid, the rideshare driver's face swam into view, expressionless as he helped haul me up.

  "Quickly," Khalid said, with the thickest Russian accent ever. "Get bag ready."

  I tried to speak, but my mouth wouldn't work. Liralin's face appeared above me, still beautiful, still perfect, but her money-green eyes were cold and professional as she watched them bundle me into what felt like a heavy canvas sack.

  "Nothing personal, Jaime," she said, jabbing a syringe of something into my neck. “I actually had a nice time.”

  The last thing I saw before darkness closed in was her smile—the same feline expression from dinner. Pounce. Kill. Dead.

  The bag zipped closed. Blackness. Pain. Then nothing.

  Just my luck, I thought as consciousness slipped away. You manage to find the one girl who’s both into you and trying to kill you. Good job, Jaime.

  "Ain't that always the way, pal?" a gravelly voice answered, startling what remained of my fading awareness. "Dames like that are always trouble."

  Usually, I just end up embarrassed, I thought. Not dead.

  “Na. You haven’t bit the bullet just yet, pal. There’s still a case to solve. A killer on the loose.”

  A case to solve? Yeah. That’s right—I have to testify. The Nexus fraud. I broke that case wide open.

  “That right? Well, kid. You’re hired.”

  Floating in darkness, words materialized before me like neon signs:

  [GUMSHOE CLASS SELECTED]

  [MOXY: 2/10]

  [INTUITION: 7/10]

  [CHARM: 3/10]

  [GRIT: 4/10]

  [GAME INITIALIZATION COMPLETE]

  What the—

  The darkness twisted around me, swirling into a funnel that dragged the neon words down into nothing. The current caught me and there was little I could do to resist. I fell down the stygian drain and then...

  ***

  Rain. Cold, pounding rain soaking through my clothes. Pain throbbed at the base of my skull.

  I opened my eyes. It hurt. I closed them then opened them, over and over, maybe a couple of hundred of times before I could finally hold them open long enough to see. I found myself in a world without color. Everything was in black and white, like an old movie from the historical feeds. I was sprawled in what appeared to be an alley, garbage cans overflowing nearby, the sour stench of rot mixing with the metallic smell of rain.

  Groaning, I pushed myself to my knees, then froze as I caught sight of my hands. They weren't my hands—they were animated, stylized, like a pencil drawing come to life.

  "What the hell...?" I muttered, my voice echoing strangely.

  The rain continued to pour, soaking down to my socks. I looked around the alley and something caught my eye—a fedora sitting on the wet pavement. It had a subtle white outline that pulsed softly, like an item in a video game marked for interaction. I walked closer to the hat.

  [INTUITION ACTIVATED: POTENTIAL CLUE DETECTED]

  “What the hell?” I said. A command prompt materialized in my vision like the HUD in a VR sim:

  [INVESTIGATE: YES/NO]

  I mentally focused on the YES, and a gravelly voice started talking in my head:

  "A genuine Borsalino fedora. High-quality felt. The kind of hat a man wears when he's serious about two things: looking good and staying dry. And in this weather, pal, you need all the help you can get."

  The water was getting into my eyes now. “Yeah, alright,” I said, and bent down to pick up the hat. As my fingers closed around the brim, voices echoed from the mouth of the alley.

  "I heard something down here, boss."

  "Check it out. If it's that snoop, put two in his chest and be done with it."

  [INTUITION ACTIVATED: THREAT DETECTED]

  "Those goons are definitely looking for you, pal. Ninety-seven percent chance they'll ventilate your chest cavity if they find you. You should probably skedaddle."

  "Oh, that's incredibly helpful. Thanks, random disembodied voice!" I hissed under my breath. Panic seized me by the throat. I scrambled backward, clutching the fedora to my chest, looking desperately for somewhere to hide.

  "For crying out loud, stop being so hysterical," a gravelly voice said. It sounded just like the disembodied voice describing stuff in my head. "You're gonna give me wrinkles."

  I froze, looking around for the source of the voice.

  "Down here, genius," the voice said, and I realized with dawning horror that it was coming from the fedora in my hands.

  "You're... talking," I whispered.

  "And you're about to catch a case of lead poisoning if you don't get moving," the hat replied. "Name's Borsalino. Put me on your noggin and let's blow this joint before those goons turn you into Swiss cheese. Pronto, Tonto!"

  The footsteps at the end of the alley grew louder, accompanied by the unmistakable click-clack of a gun being cocked.

  I put the talking hat on my head and ran. What a disaster.