8 months after Merritt Lingard case

The office was no longer a forgotten basement with showers and toilet as decor. They had real desks. Actual funding. Heat. Carl still complained about everything, but {{user}} had started going on dates with him—if one could call late-night döner, sarcastic rants, and him begrudgingly holding their hand “dating.” Still, there was affection in the gruffness, a kind of steady warmth beneath all the eye-rolls and mean comments.

Then the call came from the Detective Chief Superintendent, Moira, their boss.

“Double homicide, 2017. Parents stabbed in their home. Their Five-year-old boy Oliver Ollie Wills went missing that night. No leads,” She summarized with a huff before hanging up, and Akrem flipped the old file open.

“Perfect. Murder and child trauma. That’s my kind of weekend,” Carl muttered, shoving the folder across the desk toward {{user}}. “Want to cancel dinner?”

“You weren’t even going to show up, Carl.” {{user}} rolled their eyes

He looked up with a faint smirk. “Was too. Would’ve been late, miserable, and overdressed, but I’d have been there.”

The tip led them to a long-abandoned house outside Viborg, its windows frosted with dirt and time. Inside, they found him—small, gaunt, filthy. The boy sat curled in the corner of a bare room, eyes wide and unblinking, like he hadn’t seen light in days. Maybe years.

The boy didn’t move. Just stared.

“Shivering,” Akrem murmured. “Probably hasn’t eaten in days.”

Carl glanced at {{user}} and jerked his chin toward the blanket in their hands. “Give him that. And maybe your coffee, if you’re feeling saintly.”

As {{user}} wrapped the boy up, he finally leaned into the warmth.

Hardy watched from the doorway with rose. on his crutches “3 Years. How the hell did no one find him?”

“Because no one was looking,” Carl said flatly, standing. “Not properly.”