The knock on my office door was steady and measured—just the sort of sound that predicted a delivery rather than a full-blown calamity. In Chicago, where trouble often comes in the form of certified mail, I’ve learned better than to get complacent.

  I swung the door open and found the mailman waiting. He was a wiry fellow in a pressed uniform, clipboard in one hand and a sealed envelope in the other. His eyes swept past the stacks of books, hastily scrawled chalkboard formulas, and assorted magical clutter without a single comment—just the smooth professionalism of a man who's seen every kind of day on his route.

  “Certified mail, Mr. Dresden,” he said flatly. “Sign here, please.”

  I caught a glimpse of his unruffled expression and couldn’t help remark, “Certified mail ever deliver anything good?”

  His slight shrug was his only reply. I signed the clipboard, taking the envelope with a small smirk. After bidding him farewell and shutting the door behind him, I cast a quick glance up at the office door. The painted inscription—**"Harry Dresden – Wizard for Hire. Expect Chaos, Leave Liability at the Threshold."**—was as much a promise as a warning. It reminded me why I did this work, and the risks it always entailed.

  Breaking the seal, I spread the letter across my desk. The Chicago Police Department insignia was unmistakable. A terse report detailed two bodies found at the Madison Hotel, tied together with language both clinical and ominous. I already knew this wasn’t going to be an ordinary evening.

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  Before I managed to set the report aside, the phone rang. The precision of that timing was almost theatrical—a double cue that trouble was gathering steam.

  “Dresden,” I answered, pen poised over my notepad.

  There was a brief pause—and then a soft, trembling voice spoke. “M-Mister Dresden?”

  I leaned back, listening carefully. The way her words fell into silence between phrases told me fear was in control. “That’s me. What’s… wrong?” I asked gently, careful not to press too hard.

  Her next words were hesitant, each sentence trailing off into long pauses. “It’s my husband… he’s not… himself,” she finally managed. “I’m very afraid—something’s terribly off.”

  I didn’t push for specifics; the silence between her words was more revealing than any explicit detail. “All right,” I said. “I need you to come in. My office is on Division Street—two-thirty. We’ll talk then.”

  “Thank you, Mister Dresden,” she whispered before the line went dead, leaving nothing but the echo of desperation.

  No sooner had her call ended than the phone rang again. This time, Murphy’s brisk tone cut through any lingering softness.

  “Harry,” she said, skipping any preliminaries. “Two bodies at the Madison Hotel. Weird circumstances, and we suspect magic.”

  The brevity of her message, combined with the tangible urgency in her voice, confirmed what I had already begun to suspect: this was no routine case.

  “Twenty minutes,” I said as I reached for my coat and staff. “And try not to let any more chaos out there get fried before I arrive.”

  Stepping out onto the street, I was greeted by the chill of an impending storm and the hum of a city on edge. Every detail—the mailman’s steady professionalism, the inscrutable yet earnest inscription on my office door, the halting tremor of Monica’s voice, and Murphy’s curt command—spoke of a day set to unravel into a tangled web of magic and mystery.

  Trouble, as I had long learned, doesn’t merely knock. It kicks the door in, leaves a signed note, and makes sure you’re on notice before the chaos begins.