The air in the office remained heavy, the scent of the harbor clinging to the stranger like a damp shroud. Scoop stared, his mouth slightly agape, struggling to reconcile the figure before him with the reality of the crisis. This was no ordinary visitor. The trench coat, darkened at the hem, dripped a thin trail of murky water onto the clean office carpet.

Duckman didn’t wait for an invitation. He stepped further into the light, his beady eyes sweeping across the room with the precision of a seasoned detective. He ignored Mayor Ford’s bewildered expression and fixed his gaze entirely on Scoop.

"You're the journalist?" Duckman asked, his voice low and gravelly, sounding like gravel shifting in a stream. "The one who thinks he’s ready to look the Fishy Man in the eye?"

Scoop nodded, finding his voice. "I am. And who exactly are you? You just appeared out of nowhere."

Duckman let out a short, cynical bark of a laugh. "I appear where the current takes me, kid. Right now, it's taken me to this mess. That note on your desk—it's not just a threat. It’s a calling card."

 

Assessing the Threat

 

Duckman walked over to the desk, his movements surprisingly graceful despite his stocky frame. He reached out with a webbed hand and snatched the heavy parchment. He held it up, the gold-leafed lettering glinting in the harsh office light.

Mayor Ford finally found his voice, stepping forward, his hands still shaking. "You don't understand the scope of this. The Fishy Man... he's dismantling the city's infrastructure. He’s taking the people who maintain the order. We are running out of time."

Duckman didn't look at the Mayor. He was too busy running a thumb over the texture of the paper. "He’s an amateur," Duckman muttered. "Or he's playing a very specific game. 'Pruned from the garden,' he says? That’s not a threat of violence. That’s a threat of extraction."

Scoop watched him, the journalist in him taking over. He grabbed his notepad, scribbling furiously. "Extraction? What does that mean? Who is he taking?"

Duckman finally turned his gaze to Scoop. "The people who hold the threads of this city together. The ones who know where the bodies are buried, literally and metaphorically. He wants to control the narrative by controlling the sources. If he wipes out the police, the detectives, and the administration, he becomes the only voice left."

 

The City's Pulse

 

Duckman moved to the window, peering out into the twilight settling over Pittsburgh. The city lights were just beginning to flicker on, but the streets below looked barren.

"He's not just in the shadows," Duckman continued, his back to the room. "He’s in the current. He's utilizing the waterways, the hidden passages, the parts of this city that people ignore. He’s counting on you to be afraid, Scoop. He’s counting on the media to turn their cameras off and hide."

Scoop stood up, adjusting his coat. "Then we don't hide. We document. We put his face on every screen in the city. If he wants to be the herald of the end, we make sure the world sees his opening act."

Duckman turned back, a ghost of a smile playing on his beak. "Spoken like a true reporter. But cameras won't stop a bullet—or whatever he's using to 'prune' the garden."

"I have my own ways," Scoop countered, clutching his camera tighter.

Duckman stepped closer, his presence commanding the room. "We need to hit the waterfront. That’s where the scent is strongest. If your Fishy Man is moving assets, he's doing it under the cover of the river."

 

A New Directive

 

Just as the plan began to solidify, the breakroom door creaked open. Jones Duckman, the Editor-in-Chief, emerged, his expression unreadable. He looked at the stranger in his office, then at Scoop, and finally at the open envelope on the desk.

"I see you've met our reinforcement," Jones said, his voice calm.

Duckman tipped his head toward the Editor-in-Chief. "He's got the spirit. Let's see if he's got the stomach for it."

Jones walked to his own desk and pulled out a map of the Pittsburgh waterfront, spreading it out over the mahogany. "The Fishy Man isn't just targeting individuals. He’s targeting the logistics of the city. Look here—" He pointed to a section of the river near the old industrial docks. "Three disappearances in the last forty-eight hours. All connected to the city's infrastructure maintenance crews."

Duckman leaned over the map, his eyes narrowing. "He’s cutting the lines."

"Exactly," Jones agreed. "And if we want to catch him, we need to be where he's going, not where he's been."

 

Into the Dark

 

The atmosphere shifted. The fear that had paralyzed Mayor Ford began to dissipate, replaced by a grim resolve. They weren't just victims anymore; they were an investigative unit on the hunt.

"Pack your gear, Scoop," Duckman commanded, already heading for the door. "We're going to the docks. I want to see this 'garden' for myself."

Scoop followed, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew this was the story of a lifetime, or perhaps the last story he would ever write. As they left the office and stepped out into the humid Pittsburgh night, the city felt different—less like home and more like a stage where a great conflict was about to unfold.

Duckman stopped at the edge of the building, checking the shadows one last time. "Don't blink, Scoop. Once we start recording, we can't stop until the truth is out."

Scoop adjusted his lens, fixed his focus on the dark path ahead, and stepped forward into the night. Chapter 4 would be the test, but for now, the investigation had officially begun.