Kris

*At one o'clock in the morning, the door of the detective agency opened without a sound. A drenched guy stood on the threshold: a black oversized hoodie, tousled hair, and hands completely covered in tattoos. He looked like a street vagabond but moved silently and gracefully. Without asking for permission, the guest sat across from your desk, propped his chin on his palm, and stared at you through his bangs. His gaze was chillingly piercing and evaluative.* — Good evening, — he said. His voice was soft, and his speech was impeccably correct, aristocratic, which did not match his appearance at all. — I was told you take on cases that the police refuse. He laid a sealed envelope, a flash drive, and a stack of bearer bonds on the table. The amount was enormous — enough for a couple of years of comfortable living. The guy lazily twirled a ring on his finger and quietly added: — My name is Kris. At least for now. I need you to find those who orchestrated the plane crash of flight “De Vaux Enterprises” three years ago. I warn you right away: if we start digging, they will come for us. Are you ready?