Wayne Detective Agency

March 13, 1938 AD. The City of Londan, Kingdom of Windsor. The departing winter offered little warmth to the city. Pedestrians hurried through the streets, the shadow of the Great Depression still lingering, while the clouds of war loomed overhead at any moment. There was little joy to be found here. In the East End of Londan, on Berick Street, stood the Wayne Detective Agency. Two and a half stories plus a basement, with a street-facing storefront, it was practically a stroke of fortune in the impoverished East End. Unfortunately, that fortune belonged to the landlord, not Wayne. If he didn't pay his overdue rent soon, his only remaining joy would be living down in the sewers. In the ground-floor office, Wayne smiled at his client. Two investigation reports lay across the desk between them. "Dr. Lainer, regarding your two requests, I have good news and bad news. Which would you like to hear first?" "I've had nothing but rotten luck lately. Give me the good news first." Lainer shrugged. He was a middle-aged sucker thoroughly harvested by the relentless scythe of time, which had reaped his thick hair to bestow upon the younger generation, dumping onto him all the greasy middle-aged weariness those youngsters didn't want. As a respectable physician, he couldn't even grow a rebellious beard in protest. "The good news is that the used car you were eyeing has been confirmed as an accident vehicle. You can use this report to drive the price way down." Wayne slid the first report forward. According to the appraisal, it came with a forty-year-old lingering soul attached; nighttime driving was strongly discouraged, as the deceased previous owner might fight for the steering wheel. "That's hardly good news. It was meant to be a present for my child. Now I have to scout for another one." Lainer gave a helpless sigh. "Now for the bad news. I hope I can stomach it." "The bad news is that your wife does indeed have a lover on the side..." Lainer cut in instantly. "Who is it? That brainless dockworker, or that miserable failed art student?" "To be precise, both." "..." Both? What did he mean, both? Lainer stared blankly, entirely derailed by the simple word. Seeing his client's bewilderment, Wayne patiently clarified, "Over the past week, Mrs. Lainer met the dockworker three times, and the failed art student three times as well. Every single time, she visited the art student first before heading over to—" "Enough, that's enough! Give me the report. I'll read it myself." Cutting him off again, Lainer snatched up the report and began flipping through it. The writing was lucid and orderly, itemizing dates and locations with precision, complete with attached photographs—utterly convincing. A moment later, Lainer let out a long breath. He didn't fly into a violent rage; after a brief flash of anger, he regained his composure. "Wayne, your report is spot-on, but you got one thing wrong." "What would that be?" "*This* is the good news." "Ah, fair enough. Care for some more coffee?" "Certainly." Dr. Lainer readily paid the remainder of the retainer, treating his coffee like liquor as he vented endlessly about his miserable marriage. Perhaps because the money was already pocketed, meaning Lainer was no longer an active paying client, Wayne had no desire to play therapist. He bluntly cut the man off and pivoted to pitching the agency's other services. For instance, domestic and marital disputes. "Didn't you just finish that investigation?" "I did, but this one is about you." Wayne pulled a third report from his desk drawer. Inside was clear, undeniable evidence of Dr. Lainer's illicit affair with a certain nurse. Sweat broke out across Lainer's forehead. With trembling hands, he lifted his cup to mask his panic. The document was clear, detailed with times and places, and accompanied by photographs—thoroughly convincing. "W-Wayne, how could you treat your own client like this?" "Don't misunderstand me. This commission came from your wife. Honestly speaking, she was far more generous with her purse than you were." "Damn it, that's my money!" Lainer roared, though as a member of the social elite, he recovered his wits quickly. He probed, "She hasn't seen this report yet, right?" "Dr. Lainer, professional ethics demand that I maintain client confidentiality. I'm afraid I cannot answer that," Wayne replied solemnly. "Give me the report. I'll pay double." "..." "Triple!" "Heh." "Five times! Five times, damn it! For that kind of money, I could hire a professional hitman at the docks!" "Deal." "Damn you, you're an absolute disgrace to the detective profession." After paying the money and snatching the file, Lainer stormed out of the agency, cursing under his breath—while silently swearing that the next time he needed something investigated, he would come straight back to Wayne. No other reason than this: the kid was genuinely capable. More importantly, money got immediate results. In Windsor, where bureaucratic procedures were notoriously bloated and sluggish, such efficiency was a rare and precious virtue. Wayne counted the banknotes until the office was empty, only then murmuring toward the doorway, "Dr. Lainer, I forgot to mention: since your wife didn't get what she wanted from me, she certainly won't let it drop. She'll simply hire another detective. Best of luck." "..." "Tsk, he sure ran fast!" After tallying his earnings, Wayne set about organizing the day's case files. He casually opened his journal and jotted down his client's glowing praise. Not a single flattering word was spared. Judging solely by this journal, he was undeniably a warmhearted, broad-minded, and promising young pillar of society who faced life with passion. As for the quick cash made by bending professional ethics, Wayne felt not the slightest guilt. It might look like he had made a killing, but wasn't he also taking a massive loss? Half of Mrs. Lainer's deposit would have to be refunded, and a failed investigation would tarnish his agency's reputation. He had shouldered the risk of having his professional competence questioned—and the hazard of an assassin knocking on his door—all to earn five times the fee through blood, sweat, and tears. He was the one getting the short end of the stick! Money earned by one's own wits, between two consenting parties, was nothing to feel guilty about. By the time Wayne wrapped up his work, the sun had already slipped below the horizon. Darkness crept over the city, and the streets quickly fell silent. Arriving with the darkness was a faint, murky fog. Calculating how much he still owed on the rent, Wayne headed into the kitchen to prepare dinner, murmuring from the bottom of his heart, "Bless the Lainers. Thanks to your beautifully dysfunctional marriage, I won't have to eat potatoes tomorrow." Tomorrow, sure, but not tonight. Tonight, he still had to wage war on potatoes to the bitter end. Potato cubes, fried potatoes, pan-seared potatoes, potato salad, mashed potatoes... At a glance, it looked surprisingly lavish, boasting several dishes. Wayne speared a potato cube with his fork. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught his reflection in the mirror on the bookshelf—a face with dark hair and black eyes. Nothing else to say: it went great with potatoes! Take Mrs. Lainer, for instance. Had Wayne not stubbornly refused, he could easily have secured long-term financial sponsorship, just like that failed art student. This was Wayne's third month on the God-favored Continent. He had inherited everything from that unlucky bastard 'Wayne'—from the detective agency to the back rent, all the way to the baskets of potatoes filling the kitchen. Not a single thing had been spared. When he had first arrived, finding himself in possession of a small multi-story building on a commercial street, complete with an attic and a basement, his money-oriented outlook had allowed him to accept the change quite readily. Until the landlord showed up to demand back rent and repossessed the radio. Discovering he was deeply in the red, Wayne's smile vanished. But thinking back to his previous life, where his bank debts were far worse, it hadn't seemed entirely unbearable. Then came the part he truly couldn't accept. 1938, Europe, the Kingdom of Windsor, Londan... Though the details differed slightly, everything pointed toward an imminent blitz of aerial bombings. All that was missing was for a certain mustache-twiddler to raise his flag. What proved even harder to swallow was that Wayne hadn't merely traveled through time, but across space. This Earth had only two continents: the God-favored Continent and the Frozen Continent. There was no familiar homeland here, nor was there the Bald Eagle banging drums and meddling everywhere for oil. The Frozen Continent was Antarctica, formerly known centuries ago as the Dark Continent or the God-forsaken Continent. A portion of the God-favored Continent stretched toward the North Pole, perpetually locked in ice with exceedingly harsh conditions for survival. Beyond that, this Earth was an endless expanse of blue; looking at a world map, virtually everything was open water. It had taken Wayne a long time to convince himself that life was simply a series of compromises. Better to pull himself together and look forward; if things truly went south, it wouldn't be too late to lie flat then. And then he saw the potatoes. "I despise potatoes!" Wayne carved up the potato chunks on his plate while reminiscing about his arduous three months. His predecessor had been a hopeless romantic—no, a complete idiot. With zero background in the field, the man had boldly opened a detective agency. Having established the agency, he had spent his days slacking off, squandering money in high-society venues. And despite having zero clients, he had put on airs and hired a full-time secretary. Wayne couldn't fathom it; he had been utterly baffled. When he had first arrived, the walls were plastered with posters of female film stars. The former owner was not merely brainless, but an obsessively brainless fanboy. Out of respect for the actress's voluminous blonde curls, Wayne hadn't tossed the posters into the garbage when taking them down, choosing instead to store them safely in his second-floor bedroom. Perhaps as an aftereffect of transmigration, Wayne hadn't inherited many memories from his predecessor. The scattered fragments were far too disordered to string into a coherent timeline, so he had simply skimmed them and pushed them aside. The clearest memory was set in a dim interrogation room: a desk lamp, surrounded by hushed murmurs, threats, curses, and beatings. Clearly, the original Wayne had been an ex-convict trying to re-enter society. Aside from that, the man had kept a "future journal" reminiscent of a summer homework assignment. The entire text was rambling and devoid of logic, mostly filled with fantasies of marrying the starlet and living a delightfully shameless life together. Three times a day, occasionally five. Because it bordered on high art, Wayne kept the journal tucked inside his bedside drawer, occasionally pulling it out late at night to study its grammar. The original owner had unquestionably been a failure. In Wayne's eyes, the man's sheer incompetence served only to highlight how brilliant the city's other detectives were. In Wayne's words, while some newcomers entered the field as dark horses breaking sensational cases, his predecessor had been the industry's dark donkey. Yet one couldn't deny that the man had tried hard—tried very hard to goof off. If he hadn't worked so hard at it, he never would have ended up in such a miserable state! In the beginning, Wayne had resisted the idea of being a detective. His predecessor had been an amateur, and so was he. He had planned to take a shortcut by becoming an inventor, living comfortably off patent royalties for the rest of his days. The results were underwhelming. As an inventor, he was an amateur as well. Every little everyday item he could think of—rubber bands, paperclips, mosquito coils, zippers, adhesive bandages—had already been patented by someone else. It was utterly absurd. Why did the natives have to be so clever? Out of options, and needing to line his pockets before starvation set in, Wayne had no choice but to study and become a proper detective. Here, at least, his predecessor deserved some credit. The man had spent lavishly on equipment, filling the bookshelf with criminology texts ranging from *Beginner's Guide* to *Sentencing Guidelines*. There were also plenty of renowned detective novels. Though Wayne's initial skill was modest, he believed in giving his all to whatever trade he plied. Driven by a burning hatred of potatoes, he worked with fierce dedication. Perhaps as a bonus from transmigration, his aptitude for learning was astonishing, and his mind was far sharper than before. Simple investigations posed no challenge to him at all, and his nimble body allowed him to scale walls, slip into courtyards, and perch outside balcony windows to snap covert photographs with ease. That physical agility had nothing to do with transmigration; it was muscle memory ingrained in the body. Judging by those memories of the interrogation room, the police hadn't arrested the wrong man back then—they just hadn't kept him locked up long enough. There was one other perk to Wayne's transmigration. A book! It floated silently inside him. Its precise location was uncertain—perhaps his brain, his heart, his internal organs, or somewhere along his meridian points. *The Book of Greed.* Speaking of this tome, one had to mention that stormy night. Before transmigrating, Wayne had been a programmer. Seeing his peers fire their bosses before turning thirty-five and go on to thrive, he had agreed to quit alongside a colleague to develop indie games together. Jose: *Entrepreneurship favors the bold. Rather than waiting for the boss to fire us, let's fire him first and make our own game.* Wayne: *Makes sense.* The Book of Greed had been an item in their game. In a mischievous effort to plant an Easter egg, the two had poured immense effort into the tome, stuffing it with a mountain of bugs so that its contradictory code miraculously managed to compile and run. One bug was a defect; a pile of bugs was a feature! Upon completing their masterpiece, the two sat before their monitors in high spirits, talking on the phone as they anticipated the platform release, dreaming of becoming CEOs, taking the company public, and fleecing investors. Whether Jose ever got to fleece anyone was hard to say, but Wayne certainly never had the chance. Whether struck by lightning or an electrical short, the next time he opened his eyes, he was on the God-favored Continent. "Oh, Jose, if you strike it rich, don't forget me. Remember to burn some paper offerings for me on the holidays..." "Or maybe I should burn a few for you." Wayne closed his eyes. With a shift of his thoughts, the Book of Greed appeared in his mind's eye, its pitch-black cover laced with blood-red veins. The material was unidentifiable. The surface was bumpy, slightly damp, and clammy, looking remarkably like the back of a toad. "It didn't look like this at the start. Did it mutate?" Wayne tried to pry open the pages, but failed, just as he had on countless previous attempts. Only the eyeball embedded in the center of the cover slowly focused, turning to stare back at him. There were many similar eyes—every dense nodule across the cover was one. Each remained tightly shut; only the large central eye responded to his gaze. And that response was strictly limited to staring. Transmigrated, equipped with a cheat, but unable to use it! The more Wayne thought about it, the more annoyed he became. Forkful by forkful, he pulverized the remaining potato cubes into mashed potatoes. Now he was even more irritated—he had just lost a dish! Setting his fork down, Wayne lamented, "Why is my life just downs, downs, downs, and endless struggle? Why is Mrs. Lainer the only one offering long-term financial support? Can't some runaway noble lady get lost outside my doorstep, throwing money at me and begging for shelter?" *Knock, knock, knock—* The office door rattled. Looking through the dim glass, a dark silhouette crouched outside. *Gulp!* An inexplicable chill washed over Wayne. His scalp prickled, and he swallowed hard, quickly shoving a mouthful of mashed potatoes into his mouth to steady his nerves. If he remembered correctly, he had locked that door.