The fog rolled in thick off the bay, swallowing the neon glow of Frisco's Chinatown like a hungry ghost. You adjust your fedora, the brim damp with mist, and take a deep drag of your cigarette. The ember burns bright in the gloom, a tiny beacon against the endless gray. Your trench coat feels heavy tonight—not from the weight of the .38 in your pocket, but from the weight of the case file stuffed in your inner pocket. Another dame, another sob story, another trail gone cold. But this one... this one got under your skin.

The office above the Golden Lotus Bakery smells of old paper and regret. The fan creaks overhead, doing little to stir the stale air. Your client—Mrs. Evelyn Chase—sits across from you, her gloved hands clutching a monogrammed handkerchief. Her husband's been missing for three days. The cops say he skipped town with a showgirl. But the way her voice cracks when she says 'he wouldn't leave his wedding ring behind' makes you reach for the bourbon bottle instead of your notepad.

A knock at the door. It's Tommy Wong from downstairs, holding a grease-stained paper bag. 'Egg custard tart, Mr. Detective. You look like hell.' You toss him a quarter and he flashes a gold-toothed grin before vanishing back into the fog. The tart sits untouched. There's a photograph in the file—Mr. Chase's car found abandoned near the docks, driver's door ajar, a single pearl earring glinting on the floor mat like a broken promise.