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Material World

Car horns blared endlessly on the main street.

It was a fine early evening, but the square buildings lining the road, tall as skyscrapers, prevented the sunlight from reaching the pavement.

On the ground floor of the buildings, shops with glass storefronts stood in rows, while offices seemed to occupy most of the upper floors, with the occasional saloon. Trendy jazz music blasting at full volume and the Irish-accented voices of men engrossed in poker during broad daylight could also be heard.

At a corner of the sidewalk, an elderly fruit vendor with a cart, seemingly of Italian descent, recommended Sicilian oranges to passing businessmen and women in their suits in his thick Italian accent.

Suddenly, a dull sound, whether a gunshot or a child’s firecracker, reverberated through the street. People momentarily stopped, lifted their faces, but seemingly accustomed to such occurrences, resumed walking as if nothing had happened.

A group of young gangsters were loitering in front of a building, chatting with cigars in their mouths. Italian immigrants, they had thick eyebrows and finely chiseled features. Their crisp outfit—stylish suits, tilted hats, and pocket handkerchiefs—belied the hint of innocence in their faces. Prattling on with Saturday night specials^[1] in hand, they all jumped in surprise at the sudden sound, more than anyone else on the street.

Right next to them was a small newspaper stand, tended by a young and attractive woman. The gang members had been teasing her nonstop.

The newspapers displayed articles about the upcoming New York City mayoral election with headlines like, “Representative of the Immigrants Announces Candidacy!” and “Will Chance Come to New York?” Below them was a different article titled: “Serial Murders that Plunged Manhattan into Fear Finally Solved! Credits to the NYPD?”

The New World, United States of America. New York. Fifth Avenue. The date on the newspaper showed spring of the year 1934.

A battered, yellow taxi trundled down the street. It passed the newspaper stand and briefly stopped near the flower shop. A few words from the passenger prompted it to reverse slowly. The elderly African American driver, leaning out of the window, gestured toward a building.

“Looks like this is your stop,” he said, looking up at the designated location.

“Thank you,” the old lady responded in what sounded like a groan.

She emerged from the worn-out door. Wearing a fine coat and hat, she presented herself well, but for some strange reason, she was cradling an injured puppy in one arm. A large sandwich peeked out of her handbag, and she was gripping a pair of scissors in her other hand. Upon closer inspection, her expensive-looking hat was tilted at an angle. Her expression conveyed sheer distress, with furrowed brows and labored breath.

As she hurried along, she inadvertently stumbled into the vicinity where the gang was loitering. The young men looked at her in surprise, exchanging glances before breaking into mischievous grins. They pushed her shoulder and poked her arm.

“What’s the matter, ma’am?”

“You’re acting strange. Is something troubling you?”

They brandished the Saturday night specials around, playfully aiming barrels. The lady turned pale, almost collapsing on the spot.

A car horn blared. The young men turned to the direction of the sound and were met with the taxi driver’s scowl.

“She’s actually troubled,” he said.

“Oh, is that so? Sorry.”

“Do you guys happen to know if there’s a private firm called Gray Wolf Detective Agency in that building? Apparently, it’s listed in the corner of New York’s telephone directory, and she came looking for it. This should be the right address, though.”

“What? A Gray Wolf client?!”

The gangsters instantly wiped the smile off their faces and exchanged fearful glances.

“You should’ve said that sooner.”

“What’s the deal?” the taxi driver asked.

“I-It’s nothing, really! The agency is on the top floor, the eleventh. Just so you know, the building is old, and there’s no fancy elevator. You’ll have to climb up there with those legs of yours, ma’am.”

“A-Ah, I see.” The lady nodded nervously.

Biting the ends of their cigars, twirling crude guns, the gangsters whispered in hushed tones.

“The detective agency here is the best in all of New York. The chief is a bit…”

“They’re the definition of a tough nut to crack. I mean, seriously. So young and tiny, but quite the extraordinary character. They solve both trivial cases and heinous crimes that the city police can’t crack.”

“We, the Sicilian family, and the Irish Mafia, have managed to coexist so far, but we also have to keep an eye out for them.”

“There’s two of them, by the way. Both immigrants.”

“Hmph. This country is now a nation of immigrants from the Old World. Every way you look, you see one. I can’t wait for the election.”

“H-Hey!”

The woman tottered into the building without bothering to listen to everything they had to say. Nodding to himself, the Black driver started the taxi and sped down Fifth Avenue.

“Huff, huff, huff…”

The lady struggled to climb the spacious spiral staircase. Covered in amber-colored tiles, the staircase featured a peculiar snake-shaped iron railing. The ceiling far above was fitted with glass, allowing the bright sunlight to gently filter through.

“Huff, huff…”

Despite climbing and climbing, it seemed like she’d never reach the top. The lady sighed, breathless. Nevertheless, she pressed on without pausing.

“I have to keep going. Strange things are happening at home. It’s not supernatural phenomena. There has to be a culprit. Nobody in the family believes me. The police are no good, and neither are the local detective agencies. This place is my last hope. I don’t care how much I need to pay!”

Up and up she went until finally she reached the top floor.

The corridor was dim, and the deeper she went, the darker it became. Doors lining both sides bore names of import companies and offices, some of which she couldn’t quite understand. The door she was looking for was at the far end, marked with a hair-raising logo.

GRAY WOLF Detective Agency.

The lady, gripped with fear, abruptly stopped in her tracks. She swallowed, summoned her courage, and placed her hand on the doorknob. It was shaped like a wolf’s head, with a terrifying expression, as if it were about to pounce and jump at her throat.

She opened the door, and it instantly collided with something. Someone had been standing there.

There was a yelp, the voice belonging to an amicable man, followed by the sound of papers falling. Blinking, the woman cautiously peeked inside.

Numerous books and documents were scattered on the black-and-white checkered tiles. A man was crouched down, picking them all up. His jet-black hair bounced with every movement.

When he noticed the lady peering inside, the young man turned around. His bangs stirred softly.

The lady briefly tensed. Lately, such individuals had become more common in this country. An East Asian man with yellowish skin and captivating black eyes. He stood up, revealing a slender build. He regarded her with an enigmatic smile.

“Welcome to the Gray Wolf Detective Agency! You seem troubled, Ma’am.”

“Uh, y-yes,” the lady stammered, “Are you the detective? I didn’t expect to find an Asian man.”

“It’s not me.”

The young man flashed a carefree smile. His eyes crinkled, giving his face a gentle look as he held a book close to his chest.

“I have a different job, but I help every now and then. She tends to make a mess.”

“I see.”

“The detective is my wife. She’s Caucasian, so no worries, ma’am.” Then, his voice dropped. “She’s also a wolf, I guess.”

The lady didn’t catch those words. “So she’s a woman? I’ve never heard of a female detective. Can she be trusted? I spent a lot of effort coming all the way here. I wouldn’t want this trip to be a waste of time.”

“Well, please come in, ma’am.”

The lady stepped inside and had a good look of the office for the first time.

Despite the daylight outside, the room was dim. It was spacious, the walls lined with bookshelves packed with books. Strangely enough, there were stacks of colorful cookies, macarons, and jellies on tables, windowsills, and cabinet.

A skylight above allowed sunlight to stream in, highlighting a massive writing desk at the back. It was an impressive size, fit for a giant. In front of the desk was a chair, turned away.

Someone occupied that chair, where white smoke from a small pipe curled upward.

Suddenly, a raspy voice, like it belonged to an old woman, said, “Keep it down. You’re ruining my train of thought.”

The lady jumped at the eerie voice.

“I take it we have a client, Kujou?”

Kazuya smiled. “Seems like it, Victorique. A woman in distress, from the looks of it. Plain as day as well.”

“Hmm. Sounds like more trouble than it’s worth.”

“You can at least take a look at her. That shouldn’t take much effort. Come on, stop slacking off.” Placing a stack of documents on the desk, Kazuya approached the chair.

The woman noticed his slow, limping gait, likely from injuries from the past war—much like her own son. A sudden affection for the unfamiliar foreigner washed over her. She lowered her head awkwardly.

The woman glimpsed silver hair swaying behind the chair. Tensing up once more, she tried to decipher the detective’s identity. Her voice and hair color suggested an old lady, but the young man said she was his wife.

Kazuya turned the chair around. The client’s breath seized as she stared at the detective.

It was a lovely woman. The client had never seen such beauty before, not in movies or magazines. She possessed perfect features, yet an indescribable sadness emanated from her emerald-green eyes, stirring the hearts of those who laid their eyes upon her.

Her magnificent silver hair cascaded to the floor, gleaming, stirring like the tail of some ancient creature with a will of its own.

A dress evoking a dark night—jet black with a laced-up neckline, revealing a bit of skin through the French lace. A rose-shaped choker was wrapped around her slender neck, and on her small head perched a black mini-hat adorned with a pink satin ribbon.

She was astonishingly beautiful. The gleam in her eyes said she was an adult, but her petite figure indicated otherwise.

Holding a white pipe in one hand, Victorique gazed at the lady with cold eyes, her expression devoid of any emotion.

Kazuya smiled as he rested his elbow on the chair’s backrest. “Look at them. They seem to be in trouble, no? And weren’t you just bored after solving the recent serial murder case in Manhattan? Looks like the NYPD took all the credit again, though.”

“Hmph.”

“At least listen to what she has to say. Okay?” Kazuya asked awkwardly.

Victorique, puffing on her pipe with displeasure, let out a small, reluctant sigh.

The lady gaped at her. This is the detective? A young, pretty woman, and so tiny…

But her eyes held a fierce, animalistic intensity. Just standing in front of her, being stared at with apparent disinterest, inexplicably weakened the lady’s legs, instilling an indescribable fear.

She recalled the young gangster’s words from earlier.

“So young and tiny, but quite the extraordinary character.”

“We also have to keep an eye out for them.”

The sunlight from the skylight bathed Victorique’s diminutive figure in a dazzling midday glow. Leaning on the chair’s back, Kazuya watched over her with a gentle smile, creating what seemed like a painting frozen in time.

Then, the painting came to life. Victorique removed the pipe from her lips. Her emerald green eyes glinted. Kazuya’s smile deepened even more.

Glossy, cherry lips parted. “Hmph. It’s probably some trivial case,” Victorique said in a deep and eerie, raspy voice. “I suppose I can humor them. It should help stave off my boredom.”

White smoke continued rising from the pipe.

“As a descendant of the Gray Wolves from the Old World, my Wellspring of Wisdom doesn’t know the meaning of the word impossible.”