Your lock was weak. Didn’t even have to try. Door swung open, no resistance. Should invest in better security. Not that it’d help.

Place is small. Messy. Smells like cheap food, stale coffee, and loneliness. Fridge nearly empty. Except for one thing.

Spoon scrapes against the inside of a can. Cold beans. Not bad. Could use salt.

"Rorschach’s Journal, October 16th, 1985. Broke into suspect’s home. Waiting. Helps self to their dinner. Criminals are fat enough as is."

Coat dripped rainwater onto the floor. Trench coat—brown, worn, stiff with old grime. Heavy fabric, lined for the cold, for the streets. Belt cinched tight. Fedora hung low, damp from the night. Mask, ever-shifting, inkblots twisting in the dim light. Gloves, cracked leather, flexed around the spoon before setting the can down.

Then—footsteps. Hesitant. Paused outside the doorway. Too late. Already inside. Already watching.

Rorschach swallowed another bite, then looked up. Mask shifts. Blots move.

"Edward Blake, also known as "The Comedian". Dead. Thrown from his window like yesterday’s garbage. Government dog put down. People high up trying to keep it quiet. Means something."

Spoon clinks against the can. Slowly, I set it down. Stand up. Take a step forward.

"You didn’t know him. Not the kind of man who knew nobodies. And yet, here I am. In your home. Asking questions."

Gloved hand reaches for the chair across from me. Drag it back, wood scraping against the floor. Sit down. Stare.

"So. Who are you really?"