Night had fallen. After a long day of fruitless searching and quiet observation, Erwin retreated from the physical world. He closed his eyes in his small boarding house room and let his consciousness sink into the Animus Hub.
The Hub had changed. By his will, it was no longer an empty void but a perfect replica of his rented room, a personal nook where he could think. He had manifested a simple wooden table and a large corkboard. On the board, he began to place his memories. They weren't static images but living, moving photographs, each one an exact replica of what he had seen and heard, perfect for visualization.
He was pinning a moving image of the evasive headmaster to the board when another form solidified in the Hub beside him. It was Zero.
Zero looked around at the memory board, at the moving pictures of crying parents and nervous teachers. "This is quite convenient, huh?" he said quietly.
Erwin glanced at Zero, then back at his board. "Yes," he agreed. "It's good for threading my steps. Even with a perfect memory, I need to sort and visualize the data to see the patterns and clear the case."
"Oh, is that right?" Zero said, pulling up a manifested chair. "Well, another brain can always help. So, throw it at me. Let me listen in on this case."
Erwin paused, considering it. Then he nodded. "This is the first significant case I've taken," he began. "A missing child. The Watchers, as expected, are doing nothing. From what I've gathered, missing children cases here always go cold. The victims are often already outside the duchy's territory by the time the Watchers are officially compelled to move."
Zero's head tilted. "Why is that?"
"The Watchers do not officially begin searching for a missing person until they have been gone for one week," Erwin stated flatly.
"What?!" Zero exclaimed, his voice sharp with disbelief. "That's rubbish! A child could be dead or on another continent by then!"
"We have no time to criticize the Watchers' broken system," Erwin said, his voice cutting and focused. "We have clues." He pointed to the board.
"Any possible suspects?" Zero asked.
"My intuition points to some of the teachers," Erwin said, tapping the images of the overly rehearsed interviews. "And the headmaster himself. Their stories are too clean, their grief too performative."
Zero looked at the board, at the face of the missing girl, Elisa. Then his eyes drifted to a separate section of the board where Erwin had pinned other, older files. "Which one is this case?" he asked, then pointed. "And who are these others?"
"Oh," Erwin said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Those are the other missing children. From the past month. I found their case files in the public record. They all share the same background. Their parents are immigrants, refugees from the Argent Theocracy." He looked at Zero. "I suspect it's all the work of the same perpetrator."
A look of profound, horrified understanding dawned on Zero's face. He saw the pattern. Unwanted refugees, a police force that wouldn't investigate for a week, a school with a suspicious staff... It all painted a sickening picture. "Damn it," Zero whispered, his voice filled with a sudden, cold dread. "How can you be so composed?"
Erwin turned back to the board, his face a mask of cold concentration. "I need to be calm so I can think clearly," he said. "These children need to be rescued. Soon."
Zero's voice was low and sad. "I really hope it's not the worst thing I'm thinking is happening to those kids."
And so Erwin's night was spent in the Animus Hub, with Zero as his silent partner, as they worked to connect the terrible, tragic clues.
…
Meanwhile, in the Watchers' precinct, the air was thick with the smell of stale coffee and bureaucratic apathy. Detective Sergeant Lomare sat in the main briefing room, a mountain of case files stacked precariously on his desk. As the sergeant supervising the detective division, he knew which of his people were the real deal and which were "nepo-tectives"—incompetent parachutes from influential families.
He sighed, running a hand over his tired face. He couldn't even begin to do something with the latest string of missing children cases. They were too cold, too politically sensitive. But his conversation with Wolfe the other night had left a splinter in his mind.
…
The previous night, in a quiet, smoky tavern, Lomare clinked his glass of ale against Wolfe's. Wolfe, one of the few truly trustworthy officers he had left, was his regular drinking partner.
"Why did you let them demote you like that?" Lomare slurred, his words heavy with drink and frustration. "You passed your sergeant's exam. Those fat bastards just made up the numbers on the oral exam part to make sure you failed. Those pigs!"
Wolfe chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "It's good to hear you complaining about my life again, Lomare."
"Hey, it's true!" Lomare insisted. "So answer me. Why did you choose to become a Training Officer? You could be a detective under my command. I need all the good hands I can get. These nepo-tectives aren't helping my department at all."
Wolfe took a long sip of his drink, his grey eyes distant. "It's for the future," he said quietly. "I need to change the younger ones' mindset. Keep reminding them that we are here to serve and protect the people. As cheesy as that sounds, it's my core belief."
Lomare snorted. "Remind me again who scared off the entire first batch of rookies on their first day as a T.O.?"
Wolfe actually laughed at that. "Those rookies didn't have the guts to be Watchers. Almost three-quarters of them quit before finishing the program."
"Serve and protect, huh," Lomare muttered, looking up at the tavern's smoke-stained ceiling. "If only the higher-ups had the same mindset as you do."
"What are you talking about?" Wolfe said, his voice suddenly sharp. "Why rely on them? You're a Detective Sergeant. You're the one who supervises the detectives in our precinct. You're the one on the ground."
Lomare's eyes went blank, Wolfe's words cutting through the alcoholic haze.
…
Lomare steeled himself, a new resolve hardening his features. He stood up and called out across the bullpen. "Detectives Morhan and Celvise! My office, now!"
Two of the handful of detectives he knew actually took their duty seriously hurried into his office. "Yes, sir?"
Lomare didn't waste time. He handed them the stack of cold case files on the missing children from the Theocracy. "This one's yours."
Morhan, a sharp-eyed woman with a knack for patterns, flipped through them. "It's the same M.O. in every case, sir."
Celvise, her partner, pointed to the newest file on top—Elisa's. "Wait, this one's only been missing for three days. Isn't our official procedure to wait a week?"
Lomare looked at his two best detectives, a fire he hadn't felt in years rekindling in his gut. "You know damn well that a week is the same thing as searching for a needle in a haystack on another continent," he said, his voice a low growl. "And from now on... fuck the procedure. We've been sleeping long enough."
Morhan and Celvise looked at each other, a silent, shared understanding passing between them. A real case. A real chance to do some good. They both turned back to their sergeant, their expressions now as determined as his.
"Yes, sir."
…
Detectives Morhan and Celvise arrived in the quiet, respectable district that housed two of the city's schools. Limstar Academy, an expensive institution for the children of merchants and minor nobles, sat directly across the street from Pinecrest Public School, a more humble but well-regarded establishment.
"Shall we split up?" Morhan suggested, her eyes already scanning the opulent facade of Limstar.
Celvise fist-bumped her partner. "Hope we find a solid lead."
With that, they separated. Morhan headed for the gilded gates of the academy, while Celvise made her way toward the more modest entrance of Pinecrest Public.
The moment Celvise stepped into the main hall of Pinecrest, she was met by the school's janitor, an old, stooped man who seemed to appear out of nowhere. "Can I help you, miss?" he asked, his eyes not quite meeting hers.
"Watcher, Detective Celvise," she said, flashing her badge. "Can you lead me to the headmaster's office?"
The janitor nodded silently and led her down a quiet hallway, his soft-soled shoes making no sound on the polished floor. He stopped at a door, gestured to it, and then simply vanished back down the hall without another word. Weird guy, Celvise thought, making a quick note in her pad.
She knocked. The door was opened by the headmaster, a portly man with a florid face and a smile that was a little too wide. "Detective! Welcome, welcome!" he said, his voice booming with a forced cheerfulness. "What can I get for you? Tea? Coffee, perhaps?"
"No need," Celvise said, her tone all business. "I just need to be briefed. I will need to conduct interviews with some of your staff, and with you."
The headmaster's cheerful mask faltered for a fraction of a second. "Oh! Okay, of course," he said, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead with a silk handkerchief, despite the cool air in the office. "But... do you need to do more? One of the other detectives... he's already taken statements from all of my staff."
Celvise was taken aback. She knew she was the first official detective assigned to this case. Did another precinct already start an investigation without telling us? she wondered.
She kept her face a neutral mask. "That is a matter of internal departmental coordination," she said, deliberately vague. "For now, can you give us permission to re-interview all of your staff?"
The headmaster seemed to shrink under her steady gaze. "Y-yes, of course," he stammered, his nervousness now palpable. "You can use my office to conduct the interviews. Whatever you need."
…
After a long, grueling day of interviews, Morhan and Celvise met back at their rune-car, the setting sun casting long shadows down the street.
"Before we start," Celvise said, sliding into the driver's seat and starting the engine, "did the staff at Limstar mention anything about another detective already interviewing them?"
Morhan, buckling herself in, turned to her partner with a look of surprise. "You too? Let me guess. Blonde hair?"
"Icy blue eyes, sharp jaw," Celvise added, her own eyes widening.
"Named Erwin Smith," they both said in unison.
Celvise immediately grabbed the transponder. "Control, this is Detective Celvise, badge seven-one-four. Run a name for me. Erwin Smith. Check the full Watchers database, active and inactive."
Several seconds of static-filled silence passed. Then the dispatcher's voice came back, tinny and clear. "Detective Celvise, negative on that request. There is no individual matching that name or description in the Watchers database."
Morhan looked at Celvise, a knowing glint in her eye. "Big Sal's Tavern?"
Celvise nodded, a determined smile spreading across her face. "Big Sal's Tavern."
…
They arrived at the bustling tavern, the sounds of laughter and music spilling out into the street. They bypassed the main crowd, walking straight to the bar. "Tell Forim we're here," Morhan said to the bartender, her voice low and authoritative. The bartender paused for a second, then nodded and disappeared into the back.
A moment later, a nervous-looking halfling man with shifty eyes emerged.
Celvise's face broke into a wide, friendly smile. "Forim! How have you been?"
Forim just scowled. "What do you want?" he asked flatly.
Morhan's expression was the opposite of her partner's—hard as stone. "Careful," she warned. "Just because you're my C.I. doesn't mean we won't shut down that little gambling ring you're running on the side."
Celvise, in contrast, leaned forward cheerfully. "Does Big Sal know one of his bartenders is running an illegal book? Sal is quite particular about his tavern's reputation, you know."
Forim started sweating. "Okay, okay! What do you need?"
Morhan got straight to the point. "Erwin Smith. Blonde hair, icy blue eyes, sharp jaw. What do you know about him?"
The halfling sighed, a look of grudging respect on his face. "Yeah, I know him. He's been making a name for himself lately. Some kind of low-time private detective. Hasn't even been in the city for a week, and he's already closed a bunch of small cases in less than a day. Word on the street is he's good for the poor folk, doesn't charge much."
"Do you know where he practices out of?" Celvise asked.
"Eighth Avenue, block three, number one-fifteen. A boarding house," Forim answered immediately.
"Good," Morhan said, turning to leave. She paused, then pointed a finger at the halfling's nose. "And clean yourself up next time. The 'snow' is still on you."
With that, the two detectives left the tavern, leaving a terrified Forim frantically wiping at his nose as they headed for Erwin's office.
**A/N**
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**A/N**