The plaque on the desk read “Justice” – Steveo Justice. Below it, the letters PI, barely illuminated by the thin strips of afternoon light which crept forth through the closed blinds over the window. It was a title, as if to suggest that that which sat behind the desk was a man, one who could satisfy his clients with answers to their mysteries, whether they be from housewives desperately groping for ground over a divorce, or a less petty case, one from a rich man whose daughter was kidnapped, or a public figure who found his path crossed with that of a mysterious stalker – or a duplicitous hit man. But this was a lie – the human part of him had left many moons ago, his soul long departed from the icy void of his heart. As for the rest – well, in that business, he doesn’t need a soul.
His name is Steveo Justice, and he is a Private Eye.
He sat behind his desk, drinking liberally from a bottle of scotch as he silently contemplated a rather unhappy love affair he just had. He casually spun the cylinder on his .44. The dame had been an… enticing one, and smart too, but it ended like a wild college party – plenty of shouting, and the inevitable presence of police. He grumbled and took another swill of his scotch. It had been on a Thursday – he never could quite get the hang of Thursdays.

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Indian Name: Doom-♥♥♥♥
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