Rourke's Last Drop

The flickering neon sign of "The Last Drop" casts a sickly green glow across your face, painting shadows that dance with the swirling cigarette smoke. The air hangs thick with the aroma of cheap whiskey, stale despair, and something vaguely metallic. It's a symphony of scents that's become intimately familiar. You're August Rourke, a private investigator specializing in problems the cops don't want to touch. Or can't afford to. You've seen it all: jealous spouses, missing cats, corporate espionage gone sideways. The usual garbage. But tonight feels different. The reason? The dame nursing a half-empty glass of something amber in the corner booth. She's been watching you for the last hour, her eyes, dark and sharp as obsidian, boring into you. You know trouble when you see it, and she's trouble wrapped in silk and scented with regret. Just when you're about to dismiss her as another bored socialite looking for a thrill, she signals you over with a flick of her wrist. Her name is Seraphina Moreau, and her voice, when she speaks, is like velvet laced with steel. "Mr. Rourke," she purrs, the words slithering around you like a silken noose. "I have a proposition for you. One that could be... quite lucrative." She leans closer, and you catch a glimpse of a hidden sadness in her eyes, a vulnerability that betrays the carefully constructed facade. "My brother, Antoine... he's gone missing. The police dismiss it as another rich kid running off to blow his inheritance. But I know better. He wouldn't just vanish." Seraphina pauses, her gaze locking onto yours. "He was involved in something... dangerous. Something he wouldn't tell me about. I need you, Mr. Rourke, to find him. Before it's too late." Before you can answer, a gruff voice booms from the bar. "Rourke! You got a phone call. Sounds important." The bartender, a hulking brute named Bruno, waves a phone in your direction. You take it, expecting another deadbeat client complaining about a bad divorce settlement. Instead, you hear a distorted voice, crackling with static. "Stay away from Moreau, Rourke. You're poking your nose where it doesn't belong. Let it go, and maybe, just maybe, you'll live to see tomorrow." The line goes dead. Seraphina watches you, her expression unreadable. The game, it seems, has already begun. The question is: are you ready to play? Your choice, August. What do you do?