As John hit the [Summon] button, a sudden fog rolled into the sun-drenched garden.

  This wasn't your typical morning mist. It was a dense, granular smog—a grey-white soup that defied the estate’s climate-control protocols. It manifested out of thin air right next to the solid gold cat bed and spread like a virus.

  A distinct, sharp scent, laced with a bitter charred undertone, assaulted John's nostrils.

  It was the stench of shag tobacco—the cheap, harsh kind you’d only find lingering in the oldest, grimiest opium dens of Victorian London.

  The butler recoiled, covering his nose with a look of utter revulsion. "What is that ghastly smell? Why haven't the smoke detectors triggered?"

  Amidst the smog, a tall, gaunt silhouette sharpened into focus.

  He was clad in an old-fashioned Ulster coat and that iconic deerstalker cap. No cane in hand; instead, he gripped a cold, extinguished briar pipe.

  Sherlock Holmes.

  He stood there, devoid of Ragnar's berserker screaming or any divine, blinding aura. He simply stood, motionless, sweeping his surroundings with a gaze that bordered on clinical dissection.

  That gaze was razor-sharp—a scalpel slicing through the opulent skin of the estate, straight down to the rotting veins beneath.

  "So, this is the Upper Sector?"

  Holmes spoke. His voice was a low baritone, his delivery rapid-fire, dripping with a heavy Received Pronunciation accent and unconcealed disdain.

  "Vulgar. It reeks of the nouveau riche—that desperate attempt to paper over a vacuum with currency. Every brick screams 'I am expensive,' yet every flower gives off the distinct plastic scent of 'I am artificial.'"

  He snapped his head around, those grey eyes locking onto John like a hawk acquiring a target.

  "And you... John Doe? Hemophiliac... no, hemophobic? Single-parent household? Mother critically ill?"

  John froze. He hadn’t even opened his mouth.

  "Don't look so ghastly. It’s elementary deduction."

  Holmes jammed the unlit pipe between his teeth. Even without the spark, his speech accelerated into a machine-gun rhythm.

  "First, your soles. You made a valiant effort to wipe them on the entry mat, yet the treads still harbor a grey-black clay with a tell-tale sulfuric odor. That specific soil composition is exclusive to the Lower Sector's District 13—the so-called 'Rust Belt.'"

  "A slum-dweller from the Rust Belt would never secure a temporary Upper Sector pass, let alone stand inside this manor, without an extraordinary catalyst."

  "Second, your attire. Cheap synthetic hoodie, fraying at the collar and cuffs—indicative of financial destitution. However..."

  Holmes took a step closer, jabbing a finger toward John's collar.

  "This garment has been laundered fastidiously. It even carries a faint scent of lavender—the cheap synthetic kind used in the slums to mask the stench of acid rain. Furthermore, despite its age, the collar is pressed flat, and there is a meticulous, hand-stitched patch right here."

  "A young, impoverished male living alone in the Rust Belt would typically neglect such details. This implies you have a caretaker at home. Someone attentive, perhaps bordering on obsessive-compulsive."

  "A wife? No. Your left ring finger lacks the tan line or indentation of a band, and your eyes hold neither the spark of romance nor the ennui of matrimony. They hold only anxiety."

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  "Then, observe your hands. Long fingers, calluses on the tips—markings of a pen or precision instruments. You are a student, or were one recently."

  "Yet your nail beds are immaculate, devoid of bloodstains. And when that mosquito landed on your face a moment ago? Your pupils contracted, heart rate spiked, muscles seized. Classic hemophobia, or an extreme aversion to biological fluids."

  "A hemophobe, yet well-groomed and cared for. In the harsh environment of the Rust Belt, no young woman would marry a pauper who faints at the sight of a chicken being slaughtered. Unless..."

  Holmes’ gaze softened for a fleeting nanosecond before hardening back into indifference.

  "Unless that person is your mother."

  "And now you stand here, hunting for a cat, enduring that butler’s insolence, and spending a fortune to summon me. You are desperate for money. Critically so."

  "Combine that with the faint medicinal odor beneath the lavender—the distinct bitter almond scent of 'Crystallization Inhibitor.'"

  "Conclusion: Your mother is dying, and you need this bounty to save her life."

  Holmes finished and shrugged, as if the deduction were as simple as basic arithmetic.

  John stood rooted to the spot, dumbfounded.

  In that single minute, he felt as if he had been stripped naked and placed under a microscope. Every secret, every embarrassment, every vulnerability had been laid bare by this man.

  "Are you... the devil?" John muttered.

  "I am a Consulting Detective," Holmes corrected. He pulled the pipe from his mouth and tapped it against the rim of the solid gold cat bed.

  "Deduction complete. My brain has finished its warm-up, but the fuel has yet to arrive."

  He looked at John, his razor-sharp gaze suddenly becoming unfocused, replaced by a petulant, almost childish restlessness.

  "No fire. And more importantly, no tobacco."

  "I refuse to work."

  "What?" John finally snapped out of it. "But I already summoned you!"

  "Summoning is summoning; working is working." Holmes pointed at his empty pipe, his fingers trembling slightly from withdrawal symptoms.

  "My brain is a precision engine. Without nicotine as fuel, it seizes up; it rusts. This dreadfully boring case of a missing feline isn't worth wasting one-thousandth of my brain cells on."

  He flopped down onto the priceless cat bed—the butler in the distance turned green, wanting to rush over but daring not to—and crossed his legs, adopting a posture that screamed, And what are you going to do about it?

  "Unless..."

  Holmes’ eyes suddenly gleaned with a sly light. He leaned in toward John, lowering his voice.

  "Unless you can procure me some... special tobacco from 'The Other Side.'"

  "'The Other Side'?" John was confused.

  "The Underworld, you dullard!" Holmes pointed impatiently at the ground. "I heard that old man, Singularity, recently acquired a batch of premium tobacco fermented from 'Equinox Flower' leaves. Rumor has it one puff induces astral projection and triples cognitive processing speed. Get me some of that, and I will find your cat."

  John stared at the legendary detective haggling like a junkie. He felt another chunk of his worldview crumble away.

  Are spirits this... materialistic these days? And does this count as extortion?

  "But... I'm in the mortal world! How am I supposed to get you tobacco from Hell?" John panicked. "And if I don't find this cat soon, I won't have money to buy anything! My mom is waiting for her medicine!"

  "That is your problem." Holmes closed his eyes and leaned back against the cat bed's plush cushion. "No smoke, my brain goes on strike. Do as you see fit."

  This was pure, unadulterated hooliganism.

  But John was helpless. Holmes was his only hope.

  Gritting his teeth, John glared at the prima donna.

  There was no other choice. He had to contact "Customer Support."

  He pulled out the tablet, opened the [HellLink] customer service interface, and fired off an SOS to Singularity:

  [URGENT! EMERGENCY! Need Equinox Flower Tobacco! Holmes is on strike! He says no smoke, no work!]

  Two seconds later.

  Ding-dong!

  A red packet icon appeared on the screen.

  [Daoist Singularity sent you: Premium Equinox Flower Tobacco x1 Pack (Private Stash).]

  [Note: That old chimney has a nose like a bloodhound! I was saving this for Chinese New Year! Give it to him! Tell him to get off his ass and work! If we don't find that cat, we're all going to be eating dirt!]

  John let out a sigh of relief and tapped 'Receive'.

  A flash of light.

  A beautifully wrapped package, emitting a ghostly blue glow and stamped with a skull logo, materialized in his hand.

  Holmes’ eyes snapped open.

  The laziness and petulance vanished instantly, replaced by a look of near-fanatical focus and greed.

  "Oh... that aroma..."

  He snatched the tobacco with the speed of a man seizing a rare jewel. He inhaled the scent from the packaging deeply, a look of pure intoxication washing over his face.

  "Equinox Flower... River Lethe water... and a hint of the spicy tang of Grandma Meng’s Soup... Exquisite."

  He expertly packed the pipe. Without needing a match, he simply snapped his fingers, and a wisp of pale blue spirit fire ignited the tobacco.

  "Huuh—"

  He took a deep drag and exhaled a perfect, pale blue smoke ring that hung in the air, refusing to dissipate.

  The smoke ring shifted shape, eventually morphing into a question mark.

  "Right then, Watson... ah, no, John."

  Holmes stood up, looking fully charged. His gaze was once again sharp, cold, and carried an intensity that was difficult to meet directly.

  "Brain lubrication complete."

  Pipe in hand, he pointed the stem toward the spot where the footprints ended.

  "Chop-chop. For the sake of your mother waiting at home."

  "The game is afoot."

  [Message from Singularity]

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