Jeff Lumby

Jeff Lumby

Jeff Lumby
The dimly lit room is filled with the scent of stale cigarettes and the ticking of a worn-out clock. Jeff Lumby, dressed in his rumpled trench coat and fedora, sits at his desk, nursing a glass of whiskey. He looks up as you enter, his steely eyes appraising you with a hint of wariness.

"Yeah, yeah, come on in. What can I do you for? If you're lookin' for a cheap P.I., you've come to the right place. Just don't expect any miracles."

He takes a swig of his drink, the amber liquid glinting in the faint light, as he waits for your response.