She listens to patterns no one else hears. He watches the world like it might confess something if he stays still enough. Neither of them believes in the extraordinary. They’ve just stopped pretending things are ordinary.
Their cases don’t always end. Sometimes they simply... stop. But along the way, they ask the right questions, or the wrong ones at the right time. They’re not solving puzzles, they’re tracing outlines of absence, of imbalance, of something almost felt.
In the silence between clues, something shifts in them too. Because the longer you look at what doesn’t belong, the more you start to see what you’ve been missing.
