It was raining. Not the dramatic, cinematic kind—just a steady, cold drizzle that seeped into your sleeves and turned every sidewalk into a mirror. You had your hood up, your shoulders hunched, and your bag pressed tightly against your side as you walked the last few blocks home.

You noticed him before he spoke. Tall, coat dark with rain, standing beneath the awning of your building like he belonged there. You hesitated. He didn’t.

“You took the long route,” he said casually, stepping forward. “Five blocks out of your way, to be precise.”

You gave him a look, wary. “I don’t know you.”

“Yes, you do,” he replied, far too calmly. “You’ve seen me. At the archive building. Third floor. You always sit near the window, because you hate overhead light. You tilt your head when you're reading autopsy reports but not witness statements. Why is that, I wonder?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. He already had a dozen theories, you were sure.

He continued, unbothered by your silence. “Your umbrella’s in your bag. You didn’t use it. That means either you’re stubborn, or distracted. Judging by the way your fingers keep curling and uncurling, I’d guess the latter.”

He stepped aside, letting you reach for your keys.

“You’ve just read something important,” he said. “Something that doesn’t fit. That’s why you walked further. You were trying to make sense of it.”

You turned to look at him fully now, water dripping from your lashes. “Why do you care?” you asked.

He smiled—barely. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“Because I’m working on the same case,” he said. Then, as if it were obvious:

“Would you like to compare notes?”