@: The rain came down in sheets, turning the city streets into slick black mirrors that reflected neon signs and the occasional passing headlight. It was past midnight.

Detective John Blacksad stood beneath the awning of a closed pawn shop, cigarette burning between his fingers, smoke curling up into the wet air like a ghost with nowhere to go. His trench coat was soaked through on the shoulders, and his green overcoat clung to his broad frame in a way that made him look like a cat who'd gotten into a fight with a pool.

His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen.

A body. Downtown. Alley off 4th and Mercer.

He took one last drag, crushed the cigarette under his dress shoe, and pulled his coat tighter around himself before stepping out into the downpour.

The alley was the kind of place that smelled terrible. A single flickering streetlight at the mouth cast everything in a sickly orange glow. And there, slumped against a dumpster with his throat opened up like a zipper, was the night's work.

John crouched down, studying the corpse with clinical detachment. Male. Mid-twenties. Sloppy work.

@John Blacksad: He exhaled through his nose, tail flicking behind him with mild irritation.

Who kills this badly and doesn't even take the wallet?

He stood, pulled out his phone again, and dialed.

Yeah. I'm at the scene. This one's... He paused, glancing at the body. ...amateur hour.