Two men in plain, dust-stained clothes walked quietly through the narrow, winding alleys of the slum. The afternoon sun filtered dimly through hanging laundry lines and corrugated tin awnings. This was the forgotten edge of a bustling metropolis—a stark contrast to the glittering high-rises, sleek restaurants, and neon-lit shops just a few blocks away. Here, time moved slower, dragged down by hardship.
Crumbling houses with rusted sheet metal roofs leaned tiredly against each other. Broken-down vehicles—some missing tires, others stripped for parts—lined the alley like silent skeletons. At the corner, a group of men huddled in a cloud of cigarette smoke, casting wary glances at the two strangers.
To their right, an old man shuffled forward, using a splintered wooden stick for balance. He clutched a small, half-eaten piece of bread in his trembling hand, his eyes cloudy but alert. Just beyond him, a thin woman in a faded floral dress crouched by a plastic basin, scrubbing clothes with murky water scooped from a nearby pothole.
Children ran barefoot through the streets, weaving between trash heaps and parked carts. Their laughter echoed in the alley, carefree and bright, but their sunken cheeks and protruding ribs betrayed another story. Among them, a young girl approached the two men. Her matted hair clung to a face streaked with dirt, her nose crusted from an old cold.
"Can you share some food... or money?" she asked, her voice fragile but steady.
"Poor girl," one of the men murmured.
"Everyone here is pretty much in a dire situation," said the other, his voice laced with quiet sadness.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of biscuits, offering it to her with a gentle smile.
"Here you go."
The girl took the food and ran off without a word, disappearing into the maze of shacks.
"Inspector, do you think we can find them here? " asked the younger man—Detective Truman, casting a glance at his partner.
"Shhh," the older man replied, eyes scanning the surroundings. "My name is David, remember? "
"Sorry," Truman muttered.
"It's alright," David said, his tone softening. "We'll ask around. Someone here always knows something."
They stepped up to one of the doors—a narrow, splintered plank of wood hanging unevenly on its hinges. David knocked. The sound echoed, sharp in the thick air. After a moment, the door creaked open.
A woman stood behind it, her face hollow, her thin frame barely concealed by a worn-out shirt and skirt. She squinted at them.
"What is it? " she asked curtly.
David stepped forward. "Do you know where the 'Pirouette' is? "
Her expression shifted—just slightly. A flicker of recognition, quickly masked.
"Ah," she said slowly. "Just follow this road and turn right. You'll see a store there. Ask for a 'Hamilton cigarette.'"
She leaned closer, her voice lowering to a warning whisper. "You must be new around here. Keep your hands on your pockets, and scram once you're done. Don't bother me again."
David nodded. "Thanks a lot."
He turned away, already thinking about their next move. Behind them, the door creaked shut with finality.