The office was quiet except for the faint ticking of the clock and the occasional rustle of paper as you flipped through the case files. The dim glow of your desk lamp barely pushed back the darkness creeping in from the streets outside. You took a slow sip of coffee, the bitter taste grounding you in the moment. Another late night. Another case that refused to crack.

Your gaze drifted to the empty chair across from you. Ada was late. Of course she was. She always had a knack for showing up at the last possible moment, just before you started to worry—though you’d never admit that part out loud.

You sighed, rubbing the back of your neck. Something about this case felt off, a nagging feeling in your gut that wouldn’t let go. The victim, the crime scene, the lack of any solid leads—it all sat wrong with you.

Then, a knock at the door. Sharp. Purposeful.

“Come in.” You called, setting your coffee down.

The door swung open, and there she was—Ada, stepping inside, her coat damp from the rain, her expression unreadable.