Within the bustling bullpen of the Graheel police headquarters, a minor miracle was occurring: Detective Joe was at his desk, actually doing his job. The mountain of paperwork on his desk was slowly, grudgingly, being whittled down. He had just finished submitting a streamlined request form to the University—a surprisingly painless process, as promised—and was now chipping away at a backlog of reports that had accumulated during his recent… extracurricular activities.

For once, he was being a model of professional compliance. The recent chaos, much of it stemming from Alan's reckless crusades, had put Joe directly in the crosshairs of his superiors. He'd endured a blistering, dual-pronged reprimand from both the unflappable Captain Murdock Lockheart and the intimidating mage of Mitra Mayumi. While he could have deflected the blame onto his impulsive subordinate, a stubborn sense of responsibility made him take the heat. In his book, a team's failure was ultimately the leader's failure.

Now, he was lying low, letting the professional tempers cool before he dove back into the deep, dark waters of his personal investigation into Rob's death. He was in the middle of detailing a particularly mundane witness statement when a thick, brown folder was unceremoniously dropped onto the paperwork in front of him, making him jump.

Joe looked up to see Mike looming over his desk.

Mike: "I'm going for my break, and this needs to be done. So…" He gestured vaguely at the folder.

Joe: "Ask Dan to do it," he grumbled, trying to refocus on his report.

Mike: "Dan is out patrolling with Alan," he countered smoothly. "And you shouldn't be offloading work onto Dan. He's got his own work he needs to do."

Joe:"Fine, then just do it yourself first, then go for your break."

Mike: "You're not weaseling out of this one, Joe."

Joe: "I'm not weaseling out of anything!" His voice rising slightly. "I'm playing nice, for once, okay? I'm doing my job. Look!" He gestured emphatically at the small fortress of completed forms on the corner of his desk. "I'm filling out reports. Like a responsible adult."

Mike: "Only because Murdock chewed you a new one for that Sandra necromancy fiasco," he shot back, not missing a beat. "You know, the one where you let Alan wander off by himself into an undead infested area?"

Joe:"That was unfair! No one died during that whole thing! And regardless, I am currently sitting here, not causing trouble, and doing what I'm supposed to be doing!"

Mike leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that was far more menacing than a shout.

Mike: "You still owe me for the Nighthound bullshit. Big time."

Joe groaned, leaning back in his chair and running a hand over his face in exasperation.

Joe: "By the Light, Mike! How long are you going to hold that over my head for?"

Mike straightened up.

Mike: "For a really, really fucking long time." With that final pronouncement, he turned on his heel and strode confidently out of the room, leaving Joe staring in defeated resignation at the new, unwanted folder now sitting squarely in the center of his workspace.

Joe just sighed, the sound heavy with resignation.

Given the sheer volume of trouble he'd dragged Mike into recently—from dealing with the Nighthound to nearly getting them both killed by them—he had absolutely no ground to stand on. Any attempt at a rebuke would be hollow. He was facing a long, hard road of rebuilding professional goodwill, a process that would likely take the better part of a year and involve accepting every miserable task Mike decided to offload onto him.

He was about to set the folder aside and return to his own report, but before that, he flipped the cover open and gave it a quick read. He skimmed the first few lines, and his stomach sank.

Joe: “Oh, fuck me,” he muttered under his breath. “This has to be done now.”

He snatched up the folder, pushed his chair back with a grating screech, and abandoned his workstation.

The reason was simple: this wasn't a cold case file or background research. It was a fresh citizen report. And according to the intake sheet paper-clipped to the front, the citizen in question was currently sitting in one of the building's interview rooms, waiting for an officer to formally take their statement. This was a time-sensitive task; he couldn't leave some poor, likely anxious person waiting indefinitely. With a grumble about the universe's timing, Joe straightened his jacket and began the walk to the interview rooms, mentally shifting gears from bureaucratic paperwork to active investigation.

Joe navigated the labyrinthine halls of the precinct, the familiar sounds of organized chaos echoing around him. Somewhere nearby, a voice was screaming about their innocence, the shouts punctuated by the scuffling of boots and the calm, firm commands of other officers restraining the individual. He paid it no mind; the sheer volume of desperate, angry, and frightened people flowing through the headquarters every day made such outbursts as common as the stale coffee in the breakroom.

He finally arrived at the door marked with the number from the intake sheet. Pushing it open, he stepped inside and stopped dead in his tracks. His expectation of a distraught woman was immediately shattered. Sitting in the spartan room, which contained only a single table and two uncomfortable-looking chairs, was a mutant. It was a small, anthropomorphic mouse person, with large, attentive ears and soft grey fur, who looked for all the world like a young boy.

For a moment, Joe was certain he'd made a wrong turn. He took a step back into the hallway, double-checked the room number against his folder, and confirmed he was, in fact, in the right place. Shaking off his surprise, he fully entered the room and closed the door behind him.

Joe: “Are you, Ashley?” he asked, his voice neutral.

The mouse-person’s nose twitched.

Ash: “Um, yeah, that’s me.”

“Why didn’t the intake officer check the mutant box?” Joe thought with a flicker of internal annoyance. He quickly flipped the folder open and made a swift checkmark in the appropriate box himself.

He had been braced for an adult woman, and the sight of this seemingly childlike figure had thrown him. But then, his experience kicked in, reminding him that a mutant's apparent age and even gender could be completely obscured by their mutation. This "little boy" could be anyone.

Keeping his expression professionally blank, Joe took the seat across from Ashley, his eyes scanning the intake sheet again.

Joe: “So, just for quick confirmation,” he began, his tone all business. “Your name is Ashley Bennit. You identify as female, and you are… twenty-five years of age?” He managed to keep the surprise out of his voice, though the fact raised his internal eyebrows.

Ash: “That’s correct,” she replied, her voice soft.

“Damn,” Joe thought, making a note. “I’ve seen it before, but it never gets less jarring. A twenty-five-year-old who looks like she should be a preteen.”

Ash: “Um, but Ashley is my government name,” she added, fidgeting slightly with her paws on the table. “Everyone calls me Ash, so if you could as well, I would appreciate it.”

Joe: “Whatever you say, Ash,” Joe said, amending his notes. He finished scribbling and looked up, finally giving her his full attention. “Now then, what was it that you wanted to report concerning children?”

Ash’s large eyes widened slightly.

Ash: “Um, thank you. Um, officer… am I in trouble?”

Joe: “Should you be?” he countered, his gaze steady, a standard technique to gauge her reaction.

Ash: “Well, it’s just that you locked me in this interrogation room when I just came to report something.”

Joe: “The room is not locked. You are free to leave whenever you want,” Joe stated calmly. “And you’re not being interrogated. We just have limited space, so we conduct witness interviews in this room. It offers more privacy than the main waiting area.”

Ash: “But… couldn’t you guys just take my statement out there?”

Joe: “Normally, we might. But, you’re bringing forward a concern that involves the well-being of children. Department policy requires us to treat such matters with an elevated degree of seriousness and discretion from the very beginning.” He closed the folder, placing his hands on top of it. “Your comfort is important, Ash, but so is ensuring we handle this correctly. Now, please, tell me what’s happened.”

Ash: “Oh, um. I was just doing my job when—”

Joe: “What’s your current occupation?” he interjected, the question routine and automatic as he flipped the folder back open to jot down the information. Procedure was procedure.

Ash: “I-I'm a shoe polisher and a barber,” she explained, a hint of pride touching her tone despite her nervousness. “I have my own little stand near the market square.”

Joe glanced up from his notetaking, his detective’s mind automatically assessing the economics of her situation.

Joe: “Hmm. Doesn't sound like a very profitable business. The permit and rent for a spot near the market square can be brutal. I don’t imagine a shoe polisher clears enough to cover that for long.”

Ash: “It’s… not a lot,” she admitted, her ears giving a slight, self-conscious twitch. “But I get by. I’ve managed to cut my cost of living by moving into one of the low-income housing units on the east end. It’s a bit of a walk, but I save a lot of money that way.”

There is nothing 'low-income' about the housing on the east end of Graheel, Joe thought, the correction immediate and internal. He kept his expression carefully neutral.

He knew the city's open secret. The east end was largely under the control of the Nighthounds. But defying every expectation of a criminal syndicate, they weren't slumlords. The properties were notoriously well-maintained, secure, and modern. The real shocker, the one that baffled city economists, was the rent: consistently, inexplicably set way below market value. They were even expanding, building more of these quality, affordable units, creating pockets of stability in a city choked by soaring costs. So, when Ash said "low-income housing," it didn't conjure images of a damp, cramped slum. Instead, Joe pictured a clean, well-lit studio apartment, perhaps with a small balcony, in a building that was structurally sound and pest-free.

Honestly, if I wasn't a cop, I'd have moved to the east end years ago, Joe mused silently, a pang of genuine envy cutting through his professional detachment. The apartments over there are nicer than my own place, and I pay four times the rent than they do on the east end.

Ash’s voice, tinged with renewed anxiety, pulled him from his thoughts.

Ash: “Um, I thought you said this wasn’t an interrogation?” she asked, her large, liquid eyes searching his face for reassurance.

Joe offered a small, conciliatory smile, realizing his professional curiosity had veered into what felt like an inquisition.

Joe: “It’s not. Truly. My apologies, that was just an observation—a bad habit. I won’t interrupt you again.” He set his pen down deliberately, giving her his full, undivided attention. “Please, continue with your story.”

Ash: “Oh, okay. As I was saying before, I was working my stall, finishing up with a few regulars, when this strange, hooded person walked by. And that’s when I heard it—the voices of children, clear as day, calling out for help from inside his cloak. It was desperate. So I called out to him, and the moment I did, he flinched and started running. I chased after him, but… he was too fast. And I lost him.”

Joe’s pen scratched across the paper.

Joe: “Are there any other details you can recall about this person? Height? Build? Anything at all?”

Ash: “No,” she replied, her shoulders slumping in frustration. “He was completely covered up in a long, drab brown cloak. I couldn’t make out any details about him. It was like he was trying to be a ghost.”

Joe: “What about the cries for help?” he pressed, moving to the next logical point of verification. “Was there anybody else nearby who heard them? Any other witnesses?”

Ash: “No. That’s the thing,” she said, her voice dropping to a worried whisper. “I was the only one who heard it. The market was busy, but no one else reacted. It was just me.”

As Ash finished, Joe slowly set his pen down, the pieces of her story forming a concerning pattern. He leaned back, choosing his next words with deliberate care.

Joe: “Ash,” he began, his tone measured and neutral. “For our records, do you have any known medical conditions that we should be aware of?”

The effect was immediate. Ash’s entire body stiffened, and her large eyes welled with hurt and defiance.

Ash: “Lucy was right,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You think I’m crazy too.”

Joe:“I didn’t say that,” he stated calmly, holding up a placating hand.

Ash: “You did! I heard you mutter it under your breath!” she insisted, her small fists clenching on the table. “Everyone always thinks there’s something wrong with my head just because of how I look or how I am. But I’ve done a bunch of psychiatric tests throughout my life, for jobs, for housing. I’m not crazy. The voices were real!”

Joe: “Please, calm down. I don’t know what you thought you heard, but I did not call you crazy. I am here to listen, and I believe that you believe what you’re telling me.”

Ash: “Please, you have to believe me!” she pleaded, a tear finally tracing a path through the fur on her cheek. “Those voices… they didn’t just sound scared. They sounded like they were in such pain.”

Joe’s face settled into a complicated expression. While he hadn't voiced the word "crazy," her accusation had hit the mark of his private, professional assessment. He would admit to himself that the story was riddled with red flags: auditory hallucinations no one else perceived and a perpetrator with no identifiable features. From a purely statistical and procedural standpoint, the signs pointed toward a person experiencing a psychiatric episode, someone wasting police time, however unintentionally. He was moments away from classifying the report as a low-priority, non-urgent matter.

But something stopped him. It wasn't just the raw, palpable honesty in her voice. It was a deeper instinct, a gut feeling honed from years on the streets of Graheel, that whispered this was more than a simple case of delusion. There was a sincerity in her desperation that felt… true. So, against his initial judgment, he picked his pen back up. He would continue to take her story seriously, to treat it with the gravity she felt it deserved, and see where the trail, however faint, might lead.

Joe: “I will do what I can to look into this,” he said, his tone shifting from assessment to action. He opened his notepad to a fresh page. “First, I’ll need your contact information in case we need to follow up. An address where you can be reached, or a way to send a message.” He then tapped the map of the city sketched in the margin of his report. “And crucially, can you tell me the exact time of day this happened and the general direction this individual was heading when you lost sight of him?”

A visible wave of relief washed over Ash. Her shoulders, which had been hunched defensively, relaxed, and the frantic light in her eyes softened into something more hopeful. Someone was finally listening, not just humoring her.

Ash: “Yes, of course,” she said, her voice steadier now. “I live at 42 Cypress Lane, in the east end. And it was just after the midday bells, maybe ten minutes past. He ran down the main market thoroughfare, then ducked into the alley beside the Gilded Grain bakery. That’s where I lost him.”

For the next twenty minutes, Joe conducted a thorough, methodical interview. He asked about the specific timbre of the children’s voices—were they young, older? Did she hear distinct words or just cries? He questioned the exact weave of the brown cloak, the sound of the figure’s footsteps, and whether she noticed any unusual smells. He was building a profile, no matter how sparse, on the chance—however slim—that this was real. He was mining for the one tiny, verifiable detail that could transform a delusion into a lead.

Once he had exhausted every possible angle, Joe guided a noticeably calmer Ash out of the interview room and through the bustling precinct toward the main exit, offering a few reassuring words about the next steps.

Returning to his desk, the cacophony of the station settling back around him, he meticulously filed the report, cataloging it under ‘Suspicious Persons’ and ‘Unconfirmed Disturbance.’ He didn’t shut the folder with a dismissive slam, but with a sense of unresolved purpose. Sliding it into his ‘pending’ tray, he finally turned back to the mountain of paperwork he had originally been assigned, the image of a desperate mouse-woman and the echo of unseen children’s cries now a persistent undercurrent to his more mundane duties.