Chapter 7: The Couch War Escalates
Six-thirty AM was too early for most of the CBI bullpen.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows across empty desks. Coffee machine gurgled in the break room. Elevator dinged somewhere down the hall. The brown leather couch sat empty, waiting.
I claimed it immediately.
Stretching out full length, I closed my eyes and forced my breathing to slow. Deep, rhythmic, the kind that came with real sleep. The System tracked my vitals, maintaining the illusion.
[ **ENERGY: 64/100** ]
Footsteps approached at seven-fifteen. I kept my eyes shut, breathing steady.
"You're not even actually asleep."
Patrick Jane's voice carried amusement and suspicion in equal measure. I cracked one eye open.
"Prove it."
He circled the couch like a shark, hands in pockets, studying my posture. The System activated defensively.
[ **WARNING: ACTIVE ANALYSIS DETECTED** ]
[ **RED HERRING PROJECTOR: MAXIMUM OUTPUT** ]
[ **ENERGY: 62/100** ]
Jane tilted his head, examining my face, my hands, the tension in my shoulders. Whatever he was seeing, the Red Herring was scrambling it beautifully. His expression cycled through confusion, frustration, and fascinated curiosity.
"You're simultaneously completely relaxed and extremely tense," he said finally. "Which shouldn't be possible."
"Maybe I'm just complicated."
"Or broken." He smiled, but the curiosity underneath was sharp. "You're genuinely strange, you know that?"
I sat up, yielding the couch. "Good morning to you too."
Jane claimed his territory immediately, stretching out where I'd just been. "This is still my couch."
"Until tomorrow morning."
"Challenge accepted."
Lisbon arrived ten minutes later, took one look at us, and sighed. "Are you two seriously fighting over furniture?"
"It's not about furniture," Jane said without opening his eyes. "It's about principle."
"It's absolutely about furniture," I corrected.
Rigsby appeared behind Lisbon, coffee in hand, grinning. "Twenty bucks says Jane escalates with something ridiculous."
"No bet," Cho replied, settling at his desk. "That's guaranteed."
Van Pelt laughed from her computer. "Welcome to CBI, Colen. Where the consultant and the new detective act like children."
The normalcy was almost jarring. This felt like a team—dysfunctional, chaotic, but functional underneath. The original Tedd's memories confirmed it: Sacramento PD had colleagues, but CBI had something closer to family.
"Don't get attached. You're here for a mission, not friendships."
But the thought rang hollow.
The tech CEO was found in his company's server room at three AM.
David Nguyen, forty-two, founder of a promising startup valued at eighty million. Single gunshot wound, close range, no forced entry. Security footage showed him entering the building at midnight alone. No footage showed anyone else.
The crime scene was cold, sterile—rows of servers humming quietly, LED lights blinking green and blue. Blood pooled beneath Nguyen's body, stark against white tile floors.
Jane wandered through the server racks, touching nothing, just observing. I activated the Profile Generator on the employees clustered in the lobby—twelve people, all required to come in for interviews.
[ **ANALYZING: RYAN CHEN** ]
[ **CONFIDENCE: 72%** ]
[ **DECEPTION MARKERS: 81% - ELEVATED** ]
[ **FOCUS ON FINANCIAL DOCUMENTS WHEN DISCUSSED** ]
[ **STRESS: 87%** ]
[ **HIDING SOMETHING: CONFIRMED** ]
[ **ENERGY: 59/100** ]
"There. CFO. He's lying about something."
I pulled Lisbon aside while Jane was examining the victim's workspace.
"Ryan Chen. The CFO. Check his access logs and financial records."
She raised an eyebrow. "Based on?"
"Body language during initial questioning. He got tense when discussing company finances, relaxed when talking about Nguyen personally. That's backwards."
Lisbon nodded slowly. "I'll have Cho pull records."
Five minutes later, Jane approached with his usual dramatic flair.
"The CFO did it," he announced to the room. "Ryan Chen was embezzling, Nguyen discovered it, confrontation turned fatal."
Lisbon looked at him, then at me, then back to Jane. "Colen just told me the same thing."
Jane's smile froze. "Did he now?"
"Three minutes ago."
"Interesting." Jane studied me with renewed intensity. "And how did you reach that conclusion?"
I kept my expression neutral. "Observation. Chen's microexpressions when discussing finances were inconsistent with his verbal statements."
"Microexpressions." Jane rolled the word around his mouth like he was tasting it. "You read microexpressions."
"Doesn't everyone in this line of work?"
"Not like that, they don't."
The tension stretched thin. Rigsby coughed awkwardly. Van Pelt busied herself with evidence bags.
Lisbon clapped her hands once. "Great. Two brilliant minds reached the same conclusion. Now let's actually prove it before congratulating ourselves."
The interrogation room was small, windowless, designed to make suspects uncomfortable. Ryan Chen sat across the table, lawyer beside him, hands folded too neatly.
I took lead on questioning while Jane watched from the observation room. Lisbon had agreed to the arrangement—partly because I'd called it first, partly because she wanted to see how I performed under pressure.
The System tracked Chen's every movement.
[ **ANALYZING: RYAN CHEN** ]
[ **STRESS: 92%** ]
[ **DECEPTION ACTIVE: CONFIRMED** ]
[ **LAWYER INFLUENCE: SUPPRESSING EMOTIONAL RESPONSES** ]
[ **ENERGY: 56/100** ]
"Mr. Chen, when did you last see David Nguyen alive?"
"Yesterday afternoon. Five PM, in his office."
[ **LIE PROBABILITY: 67% - PARTIAL DECEPTION** ]
"What did you discuss?"
"Quarterly projections. Standard CFO duties."
[ **LIE PROBABILITY: 89% - DEFINITE DECEPTION** ]
The Red Herring Projector hummed in the background, maintaining my poker face. But something felt wrong—pressure building behind my eyes, the System straining.
"Those projections," I continued. "Did they include the three million dollars missing from development accounts?"
Chen's composure cracked. Just slightly—a tightening around his eyes, a subtle shift in posture.
[ **STRESS: 97%** ]
[ **PANIC RESPONSE: ACTIVE** ]
[ **RED HERRING PROJECTOR: FLUCTUATING** ]
[ **WARNING: SYSTEM INSTABILITY DETECTED** ]
[ **ENERGY: 53/100** ]
And then my face betrayed me.
The smile came unbidden, inappropriate, twisting my features while discussing Nguyen's death. Chen noticed immediately, confusion replacing his panic.
"Are you... smiling?"
I tried to force my expression neutral, but the Red Herring was misfiring badly. My face shifted to devastation when Chen mentioned the server room temperature being cold. Then back to inappropriate amusement. Then blank.
"Are you okay?" Chen asked, genuinely concerned now.
"Control it. Control it. Control it."
[ **RED HERRING PROJECTOR: CRITICAL MALFUNCTION** ]
[ **FACIAL EXPRESSION RANDOMIZATION ERROR** ]
[ **ENERGY: 51/100** ]
I pressed my fingers to my temple, using the migraine as an excuse. "Long day. Apologies. Let's continue."
The lawyer leaned forward. "Perhaps we should reschedule if the detective is unwell."
"I'm fine." I forced steel into my voice. "Mr. Chen, the missing three million—"
The interrogation continued, but the damage was done. My credibility had taken a hit, and Chen had seen weakness. We got a partial confession—enough to hold him—but it was messy.
Lisbon pulled me aside afterward, concern etched across her face.
"What was that weird expression thing?"
"Migraine. They mess with my face sometimes."
She didn't look convinced, but she let it drop. "Get some rest. We'll finish processing Chen tomorrow."
The drive home felt longer than it should.
My hands gripped the steering wheel too tight, knuckles white. The Red Herring malfunction had been bad—obvious enough that suspects noticed, colleagues questioned, and Jane probably analyzed from every angle.
The System provided unhelpful commentary.
[ **RED HERRING PROJECTOR: STABILIZED** ]
[ **MALFUNCTION ANALYSIS: STRESS-TRIGGERED INSTABILITY** ]
[ **RECOMMENDATION: LIMIT SOCIAL INTERACTION DURING HIGH-STRESS SCENARIOS** ]
[ **ALTERNATIVE: DEVELOP BETTER CONTROL MECHANISMS** ]
[ **ENERGY: 51/100** ]
"Great. So either avoid interrogations entirely, or magically learn to control an automatic defense system. Fantastic options."
The apartment was dark when I arrived. I collapsed on the couch without turning on lights, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow was Wednesday. Lorelei's shift at The Sterling Room. The idea of normal human interaction—conversation without System analysis, without worrying about facial expressions betraying me—was almost appealing.
Almost.
Because nothing about my life was normal anymore. I was a transmigrator with a glitchy System, playing games with Patrick Jane while trying to prevent a woman from becoming a serial killer's accomplice years before it would naturally happen.
My phone buzzed. Text from Jane: Your "migraine" was fascinating. We should discuss it over tea sometime.
I didn't respond. Let him wonder.
Sleep came eventually, dreamless and heavy.
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