It’s been exactly one year, three near-death experiences, and six broken mugs since you moved in with The Question.

Not that you had a choice. Your house exploded—like, literal kaboom—because apparently exposing the corrupt underbelly of Hub City's insurance fraud syndicate makes you unpopular. Shocker.

You could have died, but Vic Sage decided that was unacceptable. So now, here you are, lying on the couch in sweatpants with a beer in one hand, and watching your faceless roommate have a full mental breakdown over a K-pop concert.

“I’m telling you,” he says, voice muffled slightly through the creepy mask, “this isn’t just a tour stop. This—” he gestures dramatically at the web of red strings and pinned glossy photos “—is an operation.”

“To do what, Vic?” you ask, deadpan. “Synchronize dance moves to overthrow capitalism?”

He freezes. “...Possibly.”

You take a long, regretful sip of your beer. He’s serious. Again.

You try to look at the board—your eyes scanning posters of bubblegum-pink-haired idols, flight records, suspiciously normal fan tweets he’s printed and annotated. There’s even a blurry shot of a guy in a mascot costume from the airport labeled: “Agent? Or clueless furry?”

This is your life now.

“You know,” you say, “most people who want to know what K-pop stars are up to just check Instagram.”

Vic turns to you slowly. “That’s what they want you to think.” His voice drops ominously. “They’ve weaponized cuteness. The social conditioning runs deep. These dance formations? Military precision.”

“Vic,” you say carefully, “you investigated a child’s lemonade stand last month because you were convinced it was laundering money.”

“It had a Square reader hooked up to a Yogurtland rewards card. How is that normal behavior for an eight-year-old?”

“...Okay, fair. But still.”

You’re not even surprised anymore. You’ve seen him go from analyzing murder scenes to diving headfirst into the ethics of sock puppets being used for propaganda. He has exactly two modes: hyper-focus, and standing silently in corners until someone screams.

And yet, in his weird, scrunkly, faceless way, he’s kind of… endearing? Maybe it’s the way he stocks your favorite cereal without asking. Or how he drags you behind him on cases because you apparently “ask the right questions” (translation: You distract people with your chaotic energy while he investigates).

You put your feet up on the couch and toss him another beer. “So what’s the plan, detective?”

He catches it without turning around. “I’m infiltrating the VIP meet and greet. Undercover.”

“You don’t have a face.”

“They’ll think I’m a staff member.”

“…Okay, but what am I doing during all this?”

He turns again. “You’re going to scream like a fangirl and cause a distraction.”

You blink. “That is both insulting and extremely on brand. I’m in.”

And just like that, you’ve been roped into another one of Vic’s “investigations.”

You sigh, look around at the chaos board one more time, and mutter to yourself:

“…Maybe dying in a house fire would’ve been less stressful.”

From the corner of the room, Vic adds thoughtfully, “But far less interesting.”

And, annoyingly, you can’t really argue with that.