Cleaning out his wardrobe for the New Year was never a priority for Trevor. Like most guys, he viewed clothes as purely functional; as long as they weren’t shredded beyond recognition, he kept them. This philosophy had left his dressing room overflowing with relics of the past. The opening of the Messengers’ Donation Center was the perfect excuse to clear the chaos.
The task was effortless thanks to the Dressrious app. He simply sorted his digital closet by purchase date and wear-frequency or just filtered “Underused” items, then spent ten minutes selecting the items he wanted to part with. After labeling them with a new “Donating” tag, he headed to his dressing room and pulled the physical items from their exact storage locations as recorded in the app. His final tally: three pairs of pants, two pairs of shoes, five jackets, and eight caps. Why did he own these eight caps? He had no idea, but he made a mental note to never buy another one. He even thought of a feature suggestion to streamline the donation process—something he’d have to mention to Mr. Dressrious.
Over lunch, Trevor received a message from Camila: her property manager had finally released three clips of security footage, which she had forwarded to the team’s email. Trevor pulled them up immediately.
The first clip, timestamped at 7:33 AM, showed a man in a black parka exiting the apartment. His profile was visible for a fleeting second before he locked the door, pulled a brown cap low over his brow, and walked away. The second clip, at 11:27 AM, showed a man in the same clothes returning. The third and most troubling clip captured his final exit. He was lugging heavy bags and a suitcase, his head bowed so low that the brim of his cap completely shielded his face from the lens.
Trevor hadn’t mentioned their suspicions about Goblinez to Camila yet; without solid proof, it was better to wait until after the gala. For now, these clips were the only evidence they had to analyze. He saved the clips to his phone, finished a quick pizza, and packed his suitcase of donations.
The Messengers’ Donation Center sat at the bustling intersection of 11th Avenue and West 30th Street, a stone’s throw from the riverbank. According to Alisa, the morning opening had been a media circus filled with reporters and influencers. By the time Trevor arrived that afternoon, the piles of donated goods looked like small mountains.
He was greeted by Astoria, an attendant in a green staff shirt featuring a golden caduceus on the chest and the slogan “Recycle and Share Love” across the back. She processed Trevor’s items with the help of a redheaded colleague named Kevin.
Spion arrived a few minutes later, breathless. “Where’s Patric?”
“At a nearby shelter. He’ll be back soon,” Trevor replied.
“Cool.” Spion grinned, then tugged off his dark blue New Athens baseball cap. He handed it to Astoria. “Add this to the pile.”
“Thank you. Gods bless you,” Astoria said, noting his name.
After ten tedious minutes of waiting, Patric finally reappeared. He wasn’t alone. Walking beside him was an old man with a wild mane of hair and a tangled beard, wrapped in a weathered black parka.
“Thanks for the support, guys,” Patric said, shaking their hands. “Meet my friend, Diogen.”
“I’d shake your hands, but I’m afraid you’d find me a bit… ripe,” Diogen said, tipping his brown cap. “You two are real gentlemen. Fine coats, expensive perfume.” He grinned, revealing a row of yellowed teeth.
Both Trevor and Spion were wearing the same dark coats they’d had on the day before, but fearing the donation center would be drafty, they had bundled up in beanies, scarves, and gloves. Trevor had even gone so far as to spray his orange wool scarf with cologne, knowing Alisa might drop by after work. Spion, meanwhile, was enveloped in his own scent; he was known for rotating through different fragrances to match his outfit or his mood. Trevor often wondered how a supposedly “broke” international student could afford such a collection, but Spion always brushed it off, claiming they were just samples he’d swiped from his ultra-wealthy roommate, Josh.
As for Diogen, he looked as though he hadn’t seen a shower in weeks; the man was visibly grimy and radiated a pungent, earthy musk. And yet, Trevor wasn’t focused on the smell. He was staring at Diogen’s clothes. The black parka. The brown cap. They looked exactly like the ones he had just seen in the footage.
“That cap and parka,” Trevor said, his detective instincts screaming. “May I ask where you got them?”
Diogen frowned. “It’s a bit rude to ask a man of the streets for his provenance, don’t you think? The Gods provided.”
“Forgive me,” Trevor said quickly, pulling out his phone. “We’re investigating a missing person. These clothes look exactly like the ones worn by the man we’re looking for.” He showed Diogen the footage.
“Fast fashion all looks the same these days,” Patric noted, “but Diogen, if you found those recently, you should tell them.”
“Hmph,” Diogen grunted. “I did find them, a few days ago. Two big bags and a suitcase, left out in the cold. Clothes, shoes, a shaver, even expensive body wash. I saw it as a test from the heavens—to see if I could resist the lure of material things. I kept the warm bits, brought the rest to the shelter, and I still haven’t showered. I win. Materialism, consumerism, and capitalism will never defeat me.”
“He’s a philosopher by choice,” Patric whispered with a shrug.
“I’m a true proletarian!” Diogen corrected proudly.
“Impressive,” Trevor said, his heart racing. “But Diogen, where exactly did you find them?”
“And did you see who dropped them?” Spion added.
“Found them by the river bank,” Diogen said, his eyes blinking with a strange, shy honesty. “Hardly anyone around because of the frost. I didn’t see a soul. The bags were just sitting there, abandoned under a tree near Pier 66. Whoever owned them… well, I’d bet my last nickel he’s in a fish’s belly by now.”