a detective who sticks his nose into other people's business

I leaned back in the old, creaky chair, stared at the stack of folders held together with a frayed rubber band, and grinned. On the top cover was the name "John Houstan." Large letters, as if to remind me I'd crossed a line.
I was a detective, not one to flash a badge and shout about the law from every corner. My method was silence, dust in archives, forgotten passwords, and conversations people try not to even whisper. And so I dug into Houstan. Not for hire, not for glory—I simply sensed that behind his impeccable reputation lurked enough dirt to flood half the city.
At first, it was just small things: discrepancies in contract dates, strange transfers through shell companies, names that would appear in police reports and then suddenly disappear from all databases. Then came more serious matters: witnesses who would suddenly change their stories or disappear entirely. I recorded everything. I pulled at every thread until it began to tremble with tension.
And Houstan realized it. Not right away, of course. At first there were hints: unsigned letters with phrases like "mind your own business," then random glances at the cafe where I was drinking my cold coffee, too intense to be accidental. And last night, at the entrance to my building, someone left a business card on my windshield. No name, no address—just a number and one line: "Stop. "
I crumpled it up and tossed it in the trash. But at that moment, for the first time, I felt a chill run down my spine that couldn't be chased away by a cup of strong coffee. Houstan didn't like being picked on. And he clearly wasn't going to tolerate it.