"I’ve dreamed of this my whole life," said Zavulon. "Can you believe it, old enemy? I dreamed of working with you, side by side! Seems it’s true what they say... there’s only a step from hatred to love..."

"You’re a complete lunatic," Geser said quietly.

— Sergei Lukyanenko, Twilight Watch

Over tea, Makishima summed things up:

"So. We’re resurrected again in this Library of Babel and stuck here together once more. We still can’t stand each other — I’d gladly get rid of you, and you of me. But after our deaths in that samurai epic, our pages returned to us, and after everything that’s happened, there’s no way we’d trust each other with them. I’d say we’ve reached a stalemate."

"You do realize," L said, "that with the ingredients in the kitchen, one could make poison. Or a sleeping draught. You could have laced the pastries."

"Hmm... I did think about it," Makishima admitted honestly. "But I put so much effort into them, it would’ve been a shame to ruin them."

"I hope that samurai story made it clear to you how pointless this whole rivalry is," L remarked, like a teacher scolding a particularly dense student.

"If it proved anything," Makishima countered, "it’s that you’re a complete monster."

"Then so are we both," L said.

Makishima had no retort.

"Alright, fine, you’re right," he conceded after a pause. "It demonstrated... everything it needed to. Loud and clear. I propose a truce. And I apologize for dragging you into that fantasy mess without asking."

"Fine. Then I apologize for dragging you into a samurai war."

"Sorry for sending assassins after your dear Prince Akimitsu."

"And you, for tormenting your... sister? Or whatever she was to you, I never quite figured it out."

"And you, for starving your army."

"And you, for poisoning the city’s water supply."

"And you—"

Makishima suddenly realized L was laughing. And, to his own surprise, he found himself smiling too.

"So... how about we go somewhere else?" he suggested.

L nodded.

"Let’s just pick a decent book this time. One we both like."

Makishima considered this and made his request:

"Preferably one that’s not ninety-nine percent disemboweled corpses and bad poetry. Also, I’d rather not end up in a trigonometry textbook or some other highly specific literature. Other than that, I’m open. What do you like?"

"I..." L began. Makishima braced himself — If he says he doesn’t read books at all, I swear to God, I’ll strangle him — but L simply smiled dreamily and said, "I like detective novels, of course. They have some disemboweled corpses, but definitely not ninety-nine percent."

"Fine. A detective story it is."

Rain. Goddamn rain had been falling nonstop for two weeks. It was as if someone up above had finally lost patience with this city and decided to just wash it off the face of the earth — drowning it in its own sins before it could drown in its own filth. Water poured endlessly from the sky, sometimes in a miserable, needling drizzle, sometimes in a torrential downpour. The sky had been smothered in leaden clouds for days; the world had lost all color — only the gray of concrete buildings and the black of umbrellas remained. The usual city noise had dwindled to nothing but the ceaseless patter of raindrops on every possible surface and the sloshing of water in the streets. Even the most die-hard optimists were on the verge of curling up with a bottle of gin and surrendering to despair.

Maybe that’s why the boss was already in a foul mood this morning. At least, judging by how he was screaming at poor Johnny "Quick" Volt loud enough that even in the next room, the rain outside didn’t seem quite so obnoxiously loud anymore.

Mac shrugged philosophically and took another swig of whiskey straight from the bottle. Drinking this early, and drinking this kind of rotgut, wasn’t the best idea — but trying to endure this black-and-white film noir of a morning sober seemed far worse. Besides, if the boss was this worked up — and from the sounds coming from his office, he was either throwing things or trying to knock a few more teeth out of Johnny — then Mac wasn’t in for a pleasant chat either.

He glanced toward the office door and thought about lighting a cigarette, but the boss was strict about no smoking in the office. Strict about a lot of things, actually. Nicholas Locco — aka Big Nick — owner of several nightclubs and head of the city's largest crime syndicate, wasn’t a bad guy. He never waded into the most vile filth, tried to keep things honorable, and generally respected his men.

Well... usually.

Johnny "Quick" Volt shot out of the office as if propelled by a well-aimed boot to the ass. Disheveled, wild-eyed, he swept an unfocused glance over Mac, yanked his rumpled jacket into place, and limped toward the exit with clear urgency.

"Mac! Get in here." The voice rang out from the wide-open office door.

Technically, Mac’s full name was Makishima — Japanese by heritage — but he had long since accepted that these damn Americans couldn't be bothered to remember it. And pointing out the mistake to Big Nick would have been beyond foolish. This was the same Big Nick who had personally gouged out the eyes of the previous police chief for raising his voice at him. The same Big Nick who paid — and paid well. When someone handed you that kind of money, they earned the right to call you Mac, or "that slant-eyed bastard," or even Lucifer himself if they felt like it.

Mac set down his half-finished whiskey, put on his most unreadable expression, and stepped into the office.

"Sit," Big Nick ordered curtly, pouring himself a drink into a battered old tumbler. "Quick brought bad news. Looks like some assholes kidnapped Vincent."

Vincent Palermo was the clan’s accountant. Guarded tighter than a Swiss bank, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, because he knew too damn much. Just thinking about getting to Vincent — let alone kidnapping him — was the kind of idea that only made sense if you had a death wish.

"How the hell did that happen?" Mac asked, more for the sake of keeping the conversation going than because it really mattered. The how was secondary — what mattered was that the entire clan was now at risk.

"And that’s the fun part," Big Nick snorted. "That fuckwit Quick was babbling some bullshit about Vincent just disappearing from his own apartment. An apartment rigged with alarms and guarded by five of my best men!" His voice started rising again, anger bubbling to the surface. "I truly have no fucking idea how you manage to lose a living person inside his own goddamn home, but these morons found a way."

He poured himself another drink and summarized what little information they had. Which, frankly, wasn’t much. Vincent was supposed to leave for the bank at 4:30. He never came out of his apartment. Quick — his personal assistant — spent a good while calling him, then knocking on the door, and finally searching the place. No Vincent.

"Not a damn trace! Every entrance and exit is guarded, every camera covered the place. Any ideas? Or did the fucker flush himself down the toilet?"

Mac shook his head, trying to process the flood of information. But all he could hear was the rain pounding against the windows — and the dull ache of cheap whiskey settling into his skull.

"Here’s the deal, Mac." Big Nick slapped a hand on the desk. "You’re going to find him. I don’t care how. Every resource, every man I have is yours to use. Just find him — and find him fast."

"Boss, if I may ask — why me?"

Big Nick shot him an irritated look.

"Because no one else around here has a fucking brain. Now go investigate."

Makishima hadn’t been prepared for this turn of events. He had expected the story to cast him as a criminal, not a detective. So when he stepped out of the "boss"’s office, he felt a bit... stunned.

"Well, why not?" he thought. "Might as well try my hand at playing detective. First stop— Vincent’s apartment."

He headed for the exit but paused when he saw the sheets of rain pouring down outside. After a moment’s consideration, he turned back, grabbed the half-empty whiskey bottle from the reception table, and stepped out into the storm.

Noir demanded a certain level of authenticity, after all. And judging by how this day was shaping up, he was going to need it.

Private detective L. Lawliet sat patiently behind the wheel of his battered old Ford, watching the entrance of an upscale apartment building. The rain hammered against the windshield, forcing him to flick on the wipers every few seconds just to catch a glimpse of anything through the downpour.

The day had started the way most of them did — with him loitering around his office, a dingy, dimly lit hole above a Chinese takeout joint that constantly reeked of burnt oil and some kind of acrid spices. No cases, just the steady patter of rain outside and a growing mountain of cigarette butts in the ashtray as he chain-smoked his way through a pack of Marlboros. He lazily flipped through the pages of a cheap tabloid, skimming past currency exchange rates and some scandalous piece about a Hollywood starlet, when he heard the sharp click of high heels on the staircase.

Since no other businesses remained on the second floor — some had gone under, others had moved somewhere better — there was no doubt that the visitor was heading straight for the door marked L. Lawliet. Private Investigator.

He barely had time to stub out his cigarette and shove it into the overflowing ashtray before a confident knock rapped against the door.

"Detective Lawliet, I presume? My name is Selena. Selena Johnson."

She was a knockout. A blonde bombshell in her early thirties, with flawless cascading curls, piercing blue eyes, and crimson lipstick that matched the scarlet dress hugging her curves in all the right places. Long, slender legs disappeared into glossy black stilettos, each step a promise of trouble.

Lawliet could easily picture her onstage in a shimmering evening gown, long velvet gloves stretching past her elbows, a tiny decorative hat pinned with a peacock feather perched at a perfect angle. She’d be standing beneath a haze of cigarette smoke, her sultry, honey-smooth voice drifting through a dimly lit jazz club as a saxophone and piano carried her song into the night.

She cleared her throat hesitantly, bringing him back to reality. Realizing he’d been staring just a little too long, Lawliet sprang to his feet, pulled out a chair for her, and — out of sheer politeness — offered her a cup of coffee. Luckily for both of them, she declined. The stuff was terrible.

Then he got down to business.

"You see, Mr. Lawliet," she began, twisting the strap of her handbag between delicate fingers, "this is a very delicate matter. I deliberately avoided the more well-known detectives to keep things discreet. I need absolute confidentiality."

She nodded approvingly when he assured her that he could keep a client’s secrets, then continued:

"I'm… involved with someone. His name is Jimmy — well, James. James Smith. We met at a jazz club… It was love at first sight. He told me he was married to some dangerous and powerful official’s daughter, but that there was nothing left between them. He wanted to leave her, but he couldn’t — his father-in-law would have him killed. So we met in secret. No phone calls, no unnecessary names or addresses, always arranging meetings in advance."

She exhaled shakily, her voice thick with emotion.

"He was always so kind… so gentle. He gave me the most expensive gifts, told me he loved me… Everything was perfect. But then — he just stopped coming. I waited for him, hours at a time, but he never showed. No messages, nothing. The hotel staff hasn’t seen him in over a week.

"He wouldn’t just vanish like that. I knowsomething’s wrong. Maybe his father-in-law found out. Maybe he’s sick, or—or…"

Her voice cracked. She broke down in tears.

Lawliet let her cry it out, then leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.

"So, if I understand correctly, you want me to find out what happened to him — quietly."

She dabbed at her eyes with a pristine white handkerchief from her purse and nodded.

"I don’t want to chase him down or make trouble for him. I just need to know that he’s safe. Can you find him, Mr. Lawliet?"

Lawliet asked Selena the standard questions, jotting down her answers with meticulous precision. Information on the missing man was scarce — James Smith was a ghost. A fake name, no photographs left behind, no addresses, no names of acquaintances, no mention of his job or even his line of work. Any other detective might have found this discouraging, but Lawliet was the kind of man who thrived on a real challenge. A case too slippery for the police? Now that was something worth his time.

He visited every hotel where Selena had met James and questioned the staff. A bellhop at the last hotel — encouraged by a couple of crisp bills — suddenly "remembered" that James had requested a cab early Thursday morning. Lawliet called the cab company, handed out a few more green incentives, and tracked down the driver who had picked up the mysterious Mr. Smith.

Which was how he ended up here, sitting in his beat-up Ford, staking out a building in the pouring rain, waiting for something — anything — to happen.

And something did happen.

Lawliet’s cigarette nearly slipped from his lips as he gawked at the scene unfolding before him. Just to be sure, he wiped the windshield with his sleeve and squinted. A sleek black Volkswagen had pulled up in front of the building, and stepping out of it— flanked by two bodyguards holding an umbrella over his perfectly styled silvery hair — was none other than him.

Damn Mac.

The right-hand man of Big Nick. The bastard who had his fingers in half the city’s crime and yet always managed to slither away untouched.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Makishima didn’t even have to turn around to recognize the voice.

"Ah, Detective Lawliet." His voice dripped with amusement as he raised a hand, signaling his goons to stand down. "What a surprise. You’re a rare sight in a respectable part of town." He hadn't meant to make it sound quite so condescending —but seeing L standing there, disheveled in a wrinkled trench coat, a cheap suit, and a battered fedora, was almost too much. Makishima actually felt a little guilty for how much it amused him.

"I’m investigating a missing person case," L said flatly, shivering as rain dripped from his hat down his collar. "And I find it very suspicious that Big Nick’s right-hand man just happens to be here."

"Well, Detective Lawliet," Makishima said, stretching out the title like an insult, "it just so happens that we’re also looking for a missing person. Maybe we’re working the same case. In that case, why not pool our resources?"