If someone walks into the old building on Jacobs street and walked up to the third floor, and if they continued down the hall, stepping carefully on the faded, ragged rug, you would come to an old door with a brass nameplate on it underneath a glass window. Written on this nameplate is the name Johnny Byrd, PI. Through the door, and behind the old white blinds, is a room that has a simple wooden desk with two chairs in front of it and one chair behind. Both are simple wooden chairs with nothing ornate in them. On the right side of the room is a green couch, a couch with a simple grey blanket on it and a throw pillow leaning against one of the arms, a door that leads to a bathroom. On the opposite side is a bookshelf covered in books about detectives, spies, cops, and some various comics, with a small closet and drawers right next to it. On the desk is an empty bottle of whiskey, an ashtray full of cigarettes that have been put out, and one live one still burning against the ashes, a lamp, various papers, some pens and pencils, and finally a Zippo lighter.<br/><br/><br/>A groan can be heard, and the bathroom door by the couch slowly creaks open. Out comes shambling a man in very wrinkly suit pants, an unevenly buttoned blue shirt, suspenders with only one strap on, on his right shoulder, and scuffed up black shoes. In his bleary brown eyes, behind the glaze of a hangover, shows equal intelligence, mischievousness, and sarcasm. He lets out a small belch and runs his right hand through his hair, eyes blinking at the desk, wondering who drank all of his whiskey. He turns to take a look behind him and sees a collection of bottles in the trashcan and around the shower. “What the hell happened to me last night?” He wonders aloud, looking around his small office/apartment. Johnny scratches the scruff on his neck and thinks back to the night before. He had come stumbling in, drunk as usual, sorting through the bills and the warnings about losing the office if he doesn’t pay the rent. Then, he remembers going to the bookshelf and opening a comic, only for a picture to fall out.<span style="font-style: italic">Her…</span>His eyes widen and the bleariness suddenly disappears, and pain fills them for a single moment. Then he clears his throat and shambles over to the closet, wondering which shirt he should wear for the nonexistent clientele he will see today. Byrd opens the closet doors and looks at his collection of shirts, either back, grey, white, or blue, all the while absent-mindedly running his right index finger over a scar on his upper lip.<br/><br/>He takes off his old shirt, carefully putting it back onto a hangar, and slips on a clean white shirt. Then he dresses himself in a black suit, adjusting the cuffs on his sleeves and the belt around his waist. His right hand pats the inner breast pocket to make sure the pack of cigarettes is in there before grabbing his belt holster and magnum from a hook on the side. Byrd closes the doors after attaching the holster to his waist and opens the tops drawer of the dresser. Johnny looks through the collection of rolled up ties before pulling out a black Italian silk one, a gift from when he had clients frequently, rich ones too, and he carefully ties it around his neck, grabbing his hat from the top of the dresser and tossing it onto the desk. He heads back and sits in the chair, grabbing the lit cigarette from the ashtray and puts it into his mouth. The empty bottle gets placed into the metal trashcan under his desk, and he leans back in the chair, feet going up on the desk and crossed over the other.