D E T E C T I V E S T E V E D O N A H U E
D E T E C T I V E S T E V E D O N A H U E
D E T E C T I V E S T E V E D O N A H U E
Lucky Noodle, Little Asia
The phone vibrated against the worn, lacquered surface of the desk, issuing a deep thrum that seemed to cut through the perpetual din of conversation within the PCPD’s main precinct office. With a weary sigh, Lt. Detective Steve Donahue forced himself to emerge from the dull haze of his late-morning coffee to check his messages. His desk wasn’t the most organized, and it took him a moment to locate the wayward device after shuffling aside a stack of papers and filing folders. A slight frown creased his features when he finally glanced at the text. It was from Officer Donovan, requesting his assistance with an incident at the Lucky Noodle.
The frown deepened, etching an array of fine lines across his forehead. The Lucky Noodle. The name didn’t ring any bells, but if he had to speculate, it was probably one of those fancy cafes located in the Little Asia District of downtown. Steve was still fairly new to Paragon City, having transferred over from Brooklyn several months ago. Although he had worked from one side of the city to the other on a variety of cases in his short time with the PCPD, he was still learning the lay of the land. Sure, he had heard whispers from his colleagues, but there was nothing concrete that he could recall to assist him in this instance. For the moment, it was another unfamiliar name on a growing list that he needed to memorize fast.
Despite his ignorance, Steve still felt a flare of irritation over the situation. He was a homicide detective, not some patrol grunt assigned to disperse petty fights out on the street. Why had Donovan contacted him? Part of him wondered if the Chief had suggested it. He had the impression that he was still serving a probationary period, even if he had proven himself on several occasions since his transfer. Was it simply that they didn’t like him? Or did they know more about his past? Specifically about his secret?
No. They couldn't know about that. It wasn’t possible. No one knew. He hadn’t told anyone.
That notion—that fear—allowed him to push aside his frustration and reassert his focus. Steve stood and pulled on his coat, patting down his pockets to secure his phone and keys, before stepping out into the late morning light.
The drive over to the Lucky Noodle was therapeutic in the sense that it afforded him time to reflect on the moment. While he initially expressed dismay over being asked to investigate this case, his gut now told a different story. Call it simple intuition, but Steve felt as if there was something more involved here than a simple disturbance. It needled at the back of his mind, like a persistent itch he could not reach. That sensation was compounded by the realization that trouble always seemed to find him, regardless of his efforts to avoid it.
Would this lead to more of the same?
When he arrived, the little bell above the door jangled as he crossed the threshold, announcing his entry. Steve immediately placed his hands on his hips and rocked back on his heels to survey the scene, his features adopting an impassive mask. The place had a distinct aesthetic, embracing tradition in a very tactful manner. It generated a pleasant atmosphere for patrons and passersby alike, though the tension that now hung in the shattered those sentiments. He quickly noted the mess that littered the floor: food debris, furniture, and blood, which indicated a clear sign of an altercation. A small group of people stood nearby, speaking amongst themselves in hushed tones. Steve surmised that they consisted of those present during the incident, including employees and patrons.
He exhaled softly as he absorbed this information, his eyes finally shifting to regard Officer Donovan. "Mike," Steve acknowledged the man with a curt nod, his voice steady but seeming to carry the weight of so many unasked questions. "Good call getting me out here. What do we have?"
As he spoke, Steve caught a flurry of movement out of the corner of his eye. He shifted then, noticing a young woman with a thin trail of blood seeping from an open wound. She uttered something about the Delgatos… and the occult, which prompted him to narrow his eyes. It was the end of a previous conversation, but it still sent a chill down the length of his spine, causing him to shudder involuntarily.
For the past several months, he had conducted his own research into the occult—ever since he had discovered that damned book. Was it truly a coincidence that he had been called here to investigate the very thing that could potentially help him unlock the mystery about his… condition?
Probably not.
Suddenly, being here made even more sense.
Clearing his throat, Steve stepped forward to address Julia. "I’m sorry, Miss. I’m Lt. Detective Steve Donahue." He pushed back his coat to reveal the badge on his belt. "I’m trying to piece together what happened here, and I’m curious… the occult? That seems… a little far-fetched, doesn’t it? Why would you assume something like that?"
The frown deepened, etching an array of fine lines across his forehead. The Lucky Noodle. The name didn’t ring any bells, but if he had to speculate, it was probably one of those fancy cafes located in the Little Asia District of downtown. Steve was still fairly new to Paragon City, having transferred over from Brooklyn several months ago. Although he had worked from one side of the city to the other on a variety of cases in his short time with the PCPD, he was still learning the lay of the land. Sure, he had heard whispers from his colleagues, but there was nothing concrete that he could recall to assist him in this instance. For the moment, it was another unfamiliar name on a growing list that he needed to memorize fast.
Despite his ignorance, Steve still felt a flare of irritation over the situation. He was a homicide detective, not some patrol grunt assigned to disperse petty fights out on the street. Why had Donovan contacted him? Part of him wondered if the Chief had suggested it. He had the impression that he was still serving a probationary period, even if he had proven himself on several occasions since his transfer. Was it simply that they didn’t like him? Or did they know more about his past? Specifically about his secret?
No. They couldn't know about that. It wasn’t possible. No one knew. He hadn’t told anyone.
That notion—that fear—allowed him to push aside his frustration and reassert his focus. Steve stood and pulled on his coat, patting down his pockets to secure his phone and keys, before stepping out into the late morning light.
The drive over to the Lucky Noodle was therapeutic in the sense that it afforded him time to reflect on the moment. While he initially expressed dismay over being asked to investigate this case, his gut now told a different story. Call it simple intuition, but Steve felt as if there was something more involved here than a simple disturbance. It needled at the back of his mind, like a persistent itch he could not reach. That sensation was compounded by the realization that trouble always seemed to find him, regardless of his efforts to avoid it.
Would this lead to more of the same?
When he arrived, the little bell above the door jangled as he crossed the threshold, announcing his entry. Steve immediately placed his hands on his hips and rocked back on his heels to survey the scene, his features adopting an impassive mask. The place had a distinct aesthetic, embracing tradition in a very tactful manner. It generated a pleasant atmosphere for patrons and passersby alike, though the tension that now hung in the shattered those sentiments. He quickly noted the mess that littered the floor: food debris, furniture, and blood, which indicated a clear sign of an altercation. A small group of people stood nearby, speaking amongst themselves in hushed tones. Steve surmised that they consisted of those present during the incident, including employees and patrons.
He exhaled softly as he absorbed this information, his eyes finally shifting to regard Officer Donovan. "Mike," Steve acknowledged the man with a curt nod, his voice steady but seeming to carry the weight of so many unasked questions. "Good call getting me out here. What do we have?"
As he spoke, Steve caught a flurry of movement out of the corner of his eye. He shifted then, noticing a young woman with a thin trail of blood seeping from an open wound. She uttered something about the Delgatos… and the occult, which prompted him to narrow his eyes. It was the end of a previous conversation, but it still sent a chill down the length of his spine, causing him to shudder involuntarily.
For the past several months, he had conducted his own research into the occult—ever since he had discovered that damned book. Was it truly a coincidence that he had been called here to investigate the very thing that could potentially help him unlock the mystery about his… condition?
Probably not.
Suddenly, being here made even more sense.
Clearing his throat, Steve stepped forward to address Julia. "I’m sorry, Miss. I’m Lt. Detective Steve Donahue." He pushed back his coat to reveal the badge on his belt. "I’m trying to piece together what happened here, and I’m curious… the occult? That seems… a little far-fetched, doesn’t it? Why would you assume something like that?"
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