The red envelope sat on the desk, looking like a fresh wound against the weathered mahogany of Scoop’s workspace. Mayor Ford stared at it, his breathing shallow, his hands trembling as he gripped the edge of the desk. The silence in the office was deafening, the usual hum of the city outside muffled, as if the world itself had held its breath.

Scoop Quillman reached out, his fingers hovering momentarily over the thick, coarse paper. It was cold—unnaturally cold, as if it had been stored in a freezer rather than carried through the city streets. With a steady hand, he slid a letter opener beneath the flap and broke the seal. A faint, metallic scent wafted up, reminiscent of deep water and old iron.

Inside was a single sheet of heavy parchment, black with gold-leafed lettering that seemed to shimmer under the office lights. It read:

To the Editor-in-Chief, 
Your curiosity has been noted, but your reach exceeds your grasp.  
The city is changing, and the old guard—your Commissioner, your detectives— 
are merely the first to be pruned from the garden. 
If you wish to see them again, stop reporting the news and start  
recording the end of it. 
- The Fishy Man

Scoop felt the weight of the words settle in his chest. He looked up at Mayor Ford, whose eyes were wide with a terror that Scoop had never seen in all his years as a reporter. The Fishy Man wasn't just making threats; he was claiming ownership of the city’s narrative.

“He knows,” Ford whispered, his voice cracking. “He knows we’re the only ones left.”

Scoop stood up, moving toward the window. He looked out over the skyline of the city, searching for any sign of movement, any sign of the chaos that had swallowed the authorities. The streets were unnervingly empty. Whatever the Fishy Man had planned, it was already in motion, and the newsroom was suddenly the most dangerous place in the city.

“He doesn't just want us to stop,” Scoop said, his voice hard, a reporter's instinct overriding the fear. “He wants us to be his heralds.”

Scoop grabbed his camera and his coat. “If he wants the end of the news, Ford, we’re going to give it to him—but we’re going to report it our way.”

Suddenly, the door to the office swung open, and Jones Duckman, the Editor-in-Chief, strode in. His presence was commanding, instantly cutting through the heavy tension of the room. He walked directly toward Scoop, his gaze unwavering.

“Scoop,” Jones said, his voice steady and resonant, silencing the Mayor’s trembling. “Put that envelope down. You don't need to cower. You don't need to be afraid because I know a hero who will come and help.”

Before Scoop could respond, the phone on the corner desk began to shrill—a jarring, mechanical sound. Jones held up a hand. “I’ve got to take this. Be right back.” He stepped into the small breakroom, the door clicking shut behind him.

The office returned to an oppressive, suffocating silence that lasted only two minutes. Then, the air grew unnaturally cold, and the scent of stagnant water intensified. Without a sound, a figure materialized near the window. He was shorter, stockier, and wore a trench coat that looked like it had survived a war. It was Duckman. He stood there, unbothered, flicking a stray bit of lint off his sleeve as he looked around the room.

“So,” Duckman grunted, his voice rasping through the office. “I heard there's a Fishy Man causing trouble and an Editor-in-Chief who forgot how to breathe. Which one of you is Scoop?”