The narrow alley reeked of must and forgotten years. Once a bustling roadside shop that sold antiques and strange trinkets, the place now stood as the base of operations for a man whose methods were anything but ordinary — Théodore Marchand, self-proclaimed detective, professional napper, and problem solver for hire.
Inside, the shop was a mess of old files, half-burnt incense sticks, cracked ceramic ashtrays, and empty coffee cans stacked on a window sill. The makeshift office had no signboard apart from a dusty chalk-painted plank nailed above the counter that read:
"Solve Your Problems Here — Cheap Rates, No Refunds."
In the far corner, behind a heap of books and open case folders, Théodore was snoring — arms crossed, chair tilted back dangerously, and a newspaper over his face like a lazy mask of denial from the world.
Ding!
The sound of the door chime was shrill in the quiet. A man in a crumpled beige kurta stepped in, looked around uncertainly, and coughed.
"Hello?" he said hesitantly, scanning the shop.
The newspaper twitched.
Another cough. "Is anyone here? I—uh, I need help."
Théodore slowly peeled the paper off his face and sat up, eyes half-open. His hair was a tangled mess, and sleep still clung to his eyelids.
"Tell me, what's your problem?" he asked casually, as if he'd been expecting the man all along.
The visitor blinked. "Huh? I thought this was a shop…"
"Well," Théodore said, cracking his neck, "it was. Now, not so much. Times change."
There was an awkward silence. The customer seemed ready to turn back — until Théodore yawned again and asked lazily,"So what are you here for? Trouble with the administration?"
The man paused, looking a bit lost. "The… administration? What's wrong with it?"
Théodore gave him a long, dry stare and then leaned forward. "You really haven't noticed anything off? No missing reports, delayed pensions, weird patrol patterns, corruption leaks?"
The man shook his head. "No, nothing like that. I mean, I'm just a small-time tailor in the outer block. My life is quiet."
Théodore leaned back in his chair, sighing. "Then why are you here?"
"I—well… something strange has been happening in our neighborhood," the man admitted slowly. "There's a group… they call themselves the Baghas. They've been going around… collecting money."
Théodore's brow rose. "Collecting money? As in charity? Or—"
"Extortion," the man said bluntly. "They knocked on my shop door last night. Said it was for 'local protection.' If I didn't pay, they said… bad things might happen."
Théodore stood up, brushing biscuit crumbs off his coat.
"'Baghas', huh? What a name. Sounds like someone binge-watched too many tiger documentaries."
"But they're serious," the man insisted. "They walk around in jackets with claw marks printed on the back. One of them had a revolver tucked in his waistband. They're not like those petty thugs from a year ago. These guys are organized."
Théodore's eyes sharpened. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Organized gangs don't usually form in a vacuum. Someone's pulling the strings."
The man stepped closer, a bit more desperate now. "So… will you help?"
Théodore pointed to the dusty sign above. "'Solve Your Problems Here'—didn't lie, did I?"
"But you just said you're not a gang-buster," the man protested.
"Yeah, but I am a detective. And sometimes, detecting means stepping into dirty alleyways and asking the right questions… or cracking a few heads to get answers."
The man looked relieved. "Thank you, sir. I can take you to the alley where they first showed up."
Théodore grabbed his faded brown coat from the rack and flicked the collar with flair. "Perfect. Let's go pay the Baghas a little visit. Maybe I'll solve your problem… and theirs too."
He paused, locking the door behind them and muttering under his breath,"First nap of the day ruined… This better be worth the trouble."
As they stepped into the sunlit street, a stray dog barked in the distance. The city, as always, pretended it was peaceful. But for people like Théodore, that illusion was paper-thin.
Trouble was stirring — and he could smell it.