If Elena Chen had known that working past 4 AM would land her in one of her childhood fantasies, she would’ve been a lot more specific—and a lot less tired.

  Because once upon a time, between cram school and piano lessons, she’d dreamed of becoming a world-class detective. Not the corporate kind who found “creative synergies” in M&A deals, but the real kind—solving impossible cases like Conan Edogawa, or trading sharp words with mysterious butlers in Victorian mansions.

  But somewhere between her acceptance letter to an Ivy League and her first investment banking bonus, that dream had been shelved—filed away next to her manga collection and the unopened box set of Black Butler.

  Now, at thirty, face-down on what was definitely not her Bloomberg terminal, Elena realized three things in quick succession:

  First, this desk wasn’t hers. It smelled like old money and older wood.

  Second, fluorescent lights didn’t flicker like that.

  Third, if this was a WeWork redesign, someone needed to be fired.

  She cracked one eye open to confirm that, no, this wasn’t some coworking space experiment. Candlelight danced against polished oak. Papers—handwritten, for god’s sake—were neatly stacked beside a fountain pen. The faint scent of wax and parchment filled the air.

  For a brief, delusional moment, she wondered if this was some high-end Tokyo hotel pulling a “live like it’s the Meiji era” package.

  “Miss Chen?”

  The voice was crisp, British, and far too calm for whatever fever dream this was.

  Elena pushed herself upright, her head pounding with the kind of exhaustion that came from both overwork and, apparently, cross-dimensional travel. Standing before her was a man who looked like he’d been cast by a studio trying too hard—young, handsome, soft brown hair, waistcoat tailored within an inch of its life.

  Pocket watch. Of course.

  He offered a pleasant smile, like this was all perfectly normal. “You’re awake. Excellent. There’s been a murder.”

  Elena stared at him for a long second, letting that sentence marinate in whatever part of her brain still processed nonsense.

  Some people got isekai’d into magical kingdoms with swords and harems.

  She got deadlines and dead bodies.

  “Right,” she drawled, glancing down at her attire—tailored coat, leather gloves, no sign of her phone or sanity. “And let me guess—I’m not here for a wellness retreat.”

  The man’s smile deepened, equal parts polite and proud. “Detective Elena Chen. The finest consulting detective in all of Velmont.”

  Velmont. Not Manhattan. Not even Tokyo.

  Somewhere, twelve-year-old Elena—the girl who’d devoured every volume of Kindaichi Case Files and secretly practiced deducing her classmates’ secrets—was probably screaming with joy.

  Thirty-year-old Elena mostly wanted caffeine.

  “Name?” she asked, because introductions felt safer than existential panic.

  “Adrian Drake,” he replied smoothly, offering a slight bow. “Your assistant.”

  Of course he was. He had that sidekick energy—loyal, efficient, probably hiding a tragic backstory for narrative flavor.

  “And coffee?” she tried, already knowing the answer.

  “I can offer tea,” Adrian said, leading her toward the door with the grace of someone who’d done this routine far too often. “But I’m afraid Lord Morcant’s murder requires your immediate attention. Inspector Ashcroft is waiting.”

  Naturally. Thrown into another world, and she was still on-call.

  As Adrian opened the door, revealing misty cobblestone streets and gaslight lanterns, Elena couldn’t help the dry smile tugging at her lips.

  Maybe this wasn’t a Bloomberg terminal.

  Maybe this wasn’t synergy decks and 100-hour weeks.

  But at the end of the day, work was work.

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  And apparently, even in fantasy worlds, she was still the one people called to clean up a mess.

  The carriage was, unsurprisingly, exactly what a twelve-year-old with too much exposure to historical anime would imagine—polished black wood, brass fittings, and cushions just plush enough to imply wealth without comfort.

  Elena sank into the seat, arms crossed, eyes flicking over every detail like she was waiting for reality to glitch.

  It didn’t.

  Adrian sat across from her, perfectly composed, as if ferrying a half-dazed detective through fog-drenched streets was just another Tuesday.

  “So,” Elena began, watching the gaslights blur past the window, “on a scale from one to I’m-in-a-budget-Crunchyroll-adaptation, how insane would you say this is?”

  Adrian blinked, smile polite but puzzled. “I’m afraid I don’t follow, Miss Chen.”

  Of course he didn’t. No meta-awareness here. Just scripted NPC charm.

  She sighed, leaning her head back against the wooden paneling. “Never mind. Just humor me. Quick recap—Velmont is… where, exactly?”

  Adrian didn’t miss a beat. “The capital city of the Veylan Principality. Known for its trade guilds, esteemed universities, and, more recently, a rather inconvenient rise in violent crime.”

  “Naturally,” Elena muttered. “And me—Detective Elena Chen. Consulting detective. No badge, but smarter than everyone with one?”

  His lips twitched, almost amused. “Precisely.”

  She gave a dry laugh. “At least some tropes are universal.”

  Adrian tilted his head, studying her with that infuriatingly gentle curiosity. “You seem… different this morning.”

  “Different how?” Elena asked, narrowing her eyes.

  “Sharper. More—” He paused, searching for the word. “Playful, perhaps. Less burdened.”

  Elena arched a brow. If only he knew.

  Or worse—what if he did?

  Before she could press, the carriage hit a bump, jolting them slightly as they turned onto a broader avenue. The mist parted just enough for Elena to glimpse towering stone buildings, wrought-iron fences, and men in long coats bustling about with purpose.

  It was like walking through every period drama she’d half-watched on flights between client meetings—except now, she was the main character, and there were no exit options.

  “Tell me about Lord Morcant,” she said, shifting gears before Adrian could psychoanalyze her further.

  Adrian flipped open his notebook with practiced ease. “Lord Cedric Morcant. Age forty-seven. A prominent nobleman with significant holdings in shipping and textiles. Found dead in his private study early this morning by the housekeeper.”

  “Cause?”

  “Stab wound. Single thrust to the chest. No witnesses.”

  “Obvious suspects?”

  Adrian’s expression didn’t flicker. “His wife, Lady Vivienne, though the inspector believes it to be the work of common thieves. Signs of forced entry. Valuables missing.”

  Elena hummed, unimpressed. “Forced entry’s too clean, isn’t it?”

  A glint of approval flashed in Adrian’s eyes. “Naturally. But Inspector Ashcroft prefers… simpler explanations.”

  “Of course he does. They always do,” she muttered, more to herself than him. Whether it was corporate fraud or murder, the rule was the same—people believed the story that made their jobs easier.

  The carriage began to slow, the rhythmic clatter of hooves echoing against cobblestone walls as they approached a gated estate looming out of the mist.

  Morcant Manor. Exactly as dramatic as she’d expected.

  As Adrian stepped out first and offered his hand—ever the gentleman—Elena took it with a smirk.

  “Let me guess,” she said, eyeing the uniformed officers gathered near the entrance. “I’m about to make a terrible first impression.”

  Adrian’s smile was serene, but his eyes gleamed with something sharper.

  “Miss Chen, I believe that’s half the fun.”

  Morcant Manor was exactly the kind of place where secrets liked to bury themselves.

  Tall iron gates, ivy strangling the stone walls, windows that watched you like they had opinions. Elena followed Adrian through the entrance, her boots clicking against pristine marble floors that practically screamed generational wealth.

  And guilt.

  Old money always had guilt somewhere in the foundation.

  They didn’t get far before a voice like gravel and authority cut through the hallway.

  “Took you long enough, Chen.”

  Elena turned to find Inspector James Ashcroft—all square jaw, thick mustache, and the permanent scowl of a man whose worldview hadn’t been updated since the last regime. His dark overcoat was immaculate, boots polished to a shine, and he held a clipboard like it was a weapon.

  “Good morning to you too, Inspector,” Elena replied smoothly, offering a smile that didn’t bother reaching her eyes.

  Ashcroft’s gaze swept over her, landing on Adrian briefly before returning with disdainful precision. “I was expecting you an hour ago.”

  “I was unconscious,” she said, deadpan. “Terrible for punctuality.”

  Adrian, ever the diplomat, cleared his throat softly. “Perhaps we should proceed to the study?”

  Ashcroft grunted, turning on his heel without waiting for agreement. “Try not to contaminate the scene with your… theatrics.”

  Elena followed, whispering to Adrian, “Do all your cops come with a superiority complex, or is this one just compensating?”

  Adrian’s lips twitched. “Inspector Ashcroft has a particular fondness for protocol.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll send him a fruit basket of non-compliance.”

  The study was exactly as she’d pictured—rich mahogany shelves lined with books no one actually read, a fireplace still smoldering, and in the center of the room, Lord Cedric Morcant, very much dead.

  One clean stab wound to the chest. Slumped over his desk like he’d fallen asleep mid-letter—a position Elena knew far too well, though she preferred surviving her all-nighters.

  She let her gaze sweep the room. Overturned chair. A few scattered papers. A broken wine glass near the edge of the desk.

  Messy, but… too focused. Like someone had read “Crime Scene for Dummies” and followed instructions.

  “Who found him?” Elena asked, already circling the body.

  “The housekeeper, Mrs. Harrow,” Ashcroft replied, arms crossed. “Claims she brought his morning tea, found him like this.”

  “And Lady Vivienne?” Elena glanced toward the door.

  Ashcroft snorted. “Distraught. As any young widow would be.”

  Elena didn’t bother hiding her skepticism. “Distraught” was often code for hiding something. Whether it was grief, guilt, or just a lover in the closet depended on the day.

  Her eyes landed on the fireplace. Ash. Charred edges of paper. Someone had tried to burn a letter—but not thoroughly. Rookie mistake.

  She plucked it out carefully with a nearby poker.

  Adrian appeared at her side like a well-trained shadow. “May I?”

  She handed him the half-burned scrap, noting the elegant handwriting and the faint scent of perfume clinging to it.

  “My dearest V—”

  Of course.

  Elena smirked. “Nothing says ‘robbery’ like selectively burning love letters.”

  Ashcroft bristled. “Irrelevant. The safe was emptied. Silver missing. It’s clear enough.”

  “Clear as mud,” Elena muttered, crouching beside the body. Her fingers hovered over the wound—not touching, just observing.

  One thrust. Precise. No hesitation.

  And—she leaned closer—no defensive wounds. No signs of a struggle.

  Her banker brain clicked into gear alongside the part raised on murder mysteries.

  If this was a robbery, it was the neatest, most surgical theft she’d ever seen. And thieves didn’t waste time burning personal correspondence.

  She rose, dusting off her gloves. “I’ll need to speak to Lady Vivienne. And the housekeeper. And whoever else had access last night.”

  Ashcroft grumbled something about “overcomplicating matters” but waved a hand toward the hallway.

  Adrian, ever efficient, was already steps ahead.

  As they exited the study, Elena caught sight of a woman descending the grand staircase—Lady Vivienne Morcant in full mourning black, delicate as porcelain but with eyes that flickered too sharply for someone shattered by grief.

  Behind her, a man stood near the parlor entrance—tall, composed, watching the proceedings with a businessman’s detachment.

  Adrian leaned in. “Tobias Greene. Lord Morcant’s partner.”

  Of course he was.

  Helpful. Present. The kind of man who smiled at funerals because he was already calculating the next quarter’s returns.

  Elena let a slow smile curve her lips. The pieces were on the board now, and despite herself, she felt that familiar spark—the one she hadn’t felt since closing her first deal years ago.

  This wasn’t synergy decks and valuation models.

  This was a puzzle worth solving.

  And puzzles?

  Well, she’d been training for those since the first time she picked up a detective manga.