The vanishing act

The neon lights of Holloway Street buzzed and flickered as Detective Elias Mercer stepped out of his car. The city had an odd way of breathing at night—hushed whispers in alleyways, the occasional roar of a passing engine, and the ever-present hum of distant sirens. Tonight, however, the usual rhythm felt... off. Something was missing, something out of place.

The call had come in an hour ago. A disappearance, right in the middle of a crowded bar, no witnesses, no traces. Just an empty seat where a man had once been. Elias had seen his fair share of strange cases, but this one? This one sent a shiver down his spine.

The air inside The Gilded Lily was thick with smoke and regret. A jazz band played lazily in the corner, their music a half-hearted attempt at drowning out murmurs of suspicion. Elias approached the bar, flashing his badge at the bartender, a wiry man with sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the haunted eyes of someone who had seen one too many long nights.

"Detective Mercer, Homicide. Tell me what happened."

The bartender, Will, exhaled sharply and gestured toward the far end of the room. "Guy was sitting there. Name's Adrian Holt. Regular here, quiet type. Came in around nine, had a whiskey neat, didn't talk much. One minute he was there, the next... poof. Like he was never here at all."

Elias frowned, stepping toward the empty chair. The glass still sat on the table, a thin ring of condensation marking the spot where it had been held. No signs of a struggle. No broken glass. No overturned chair. Just... nothing.

"And no one saw anything?" Elias pressed.

Will shook his head. "Not a damn soul. I was wiping down the counter, looked up, and he was just... gone. The other patrons? They swear they didn't see him leave."

Elias turned to the room, scanning the faces of the late-night crowd. A woman in a red dress, eyes sharp as knives, sat near the entrance, watching him with measured curiosity. A man in a wrinkled suit nursed his drink in the shadows, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against the glass. They were all suspects in their own way, even if they didn't know it yet.

He crouched beside the empty chair, running a gloved finger along its polished wooden surface. The lack of evidence was almost evidence in itself. People didn't just disappear. Not like this.

His instincts whispered to him, a quiet tug at the edges of his thoughts. This wasn't a simple case of a man walking out on a tab or slipping away unnoticed. No, this was something else entirely.

Elias stood, adjusting his coat.

"Alright," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "Let's find out where Mr. Holt went."