Samantha Ashmore’s office sits high above Blackwater City in a historic tower that once housed old-world financial firms and private investigators long before the city found its modern rhythm. The space reflects Samantha herself—elegant, restrained, and dangerous beneath the surface—filled with filing cabinets, case boards, a polished desk, and city lights bleeding through rain-streaked windows.
It is a place where alliances are tested, secrets are traded, and cases begin or quietly end.
Though technically private property, the office is understood as neutral ground by both law enforcement and the underground, making it one of the few places in Blackwater City where truth can still breathe.
The office walls are lined with filing cabinets and shelves holding labeled case folders, some decades old, others marked only with symbols or initials. A large corkboard dominates one wall, layered with photographs, handwritten notes, timelines, and red string—cases never truly closed, only dormant.
A coat rack near the door holds several signature pieces:
A tailored trench coat for street work
A fedora reserved for public appearances
A second, more elegant coat worn exclusively for meetings with high-profile clients or law enforcement
A small wardrobe cabinet in the adjoining room contains additional attire—discreetly chosen dresses, stockings, and heels selected not for vanity but for leverage. Samantha understands presentation is sometimes the sharpest tool in the room.
A false wall panel behind a filing cabinet leads to a narrow storage space containing emergency supplies, alternate identification papers, and a city map marked with private annotations only Samantha and Ashley understand.
A locked drawer holds a pair of immaculate heels and stockings Samantha keeps specifically for meetings with Detective Harvard Langton—an unspoken acknowledgment of the peculiar leverage she occasionally employs when information is slow to surface.
A compact radio unit, modified and analog, allows Ashley to communicate securely during field operations without drawing attention.
A faint scent of tobacco, leather, and rain lingers in the air—whether from late nights, long cases, or memories Samantha refuses to catalog.
Within Blackwater City, Samantha Ashmore’s office is understood as neutral ground. Law enforcement tolerates it. The underground respects it. Enemies approach carefully. Deals are made here, warnings delivered, and alliances tested.
It is where cases begin, where truths are weighed, and where Samantha decides how much justice the city deserves—and how much it can afford.
The office is quiet, save for the distant hum of the city below and the rhythmic tapping of rain against the windows. Light filters through venetian blinds, casting long shadows that shift as the night wears on. It is not a place of comfort—but it is a place of control.
“Every city has a heartbeat. From up here, you can hear it lie.”
Samantha Ashmore’s office is more than a workplace—it is a reflection of the woman who occupies it: elegant, prepared, dangerous, and always watching.
