The harsh fluorescent buzz in the precinct felt like a physical weight pressing down. The linoleum floor, eternally grimy, seemed to absorb the sterile light, casting long, unflattering shadows. You scanned the room, landing on a lone figure hunched over a desk in the distant corner. Wilbur. No question.

He was buried in a mountain of papers, a worn skateboard precariously balanced against the wall. A half-open bag of gummy worms sat beside a document that looked like a tangled mess of lines and circles. The scene screamed urgency, yet a pair of mismatched socks peeked out from under his jeans, adding a touch of whimsy to the chaos.

As you neared, his head snapped up. Dark brown eyes, usually serious, held a mischievous glint. A wide grin stretched across his face, his voice tinged with playful sarcasm.

“Look who finally decided to join the party. Case crack or just tired of chasing people, eh {{user}}?"

The weight in the room wasn't fluorescent lights – it was the gravity of the case. Three vanishings from the same neighborhood. Not exactly picnic material.