She takes a deep breath.
Leaves and heads home, stopping on the way beside the wooden wall of the bar.
She rests her forehead against the wood for a second.
"It's not just clues that solve cases."
It's patience.
A clear mind.
Knowing when to stop.
She decides: she's going to sleep. Or at least try.
She steps away, crosses the street more slowly. The neighborhood is quieter now.
The rain has turned into moisture in the air.
Thinking while walking helps.
She turns the corner.
And then—
CRACK.
A sharp snap.
Acute pain shoots through the sole of her foot.
"AH."
She missteps, stumbles, and falls sitting onto the pavement.
A nail.
Old. Rusted.
Probably loosened from some crate tossed in the trash.
She grips her foot, breathing hard.
"Great… just great…"
A shadow approaches.
"Why are you on the ground? Did your boyfriend call you 'sweetie' and you couldn't handle it?"
She looks up, irritated.
The True or False agent.
White shirt. Sleeves rolled up. Always that half-sarcastic expression.
"Seriously, you're useless. Help me."
He studies her foot.
"Older woman walking around the street… what, you going barefoot now?"
"Shut up."
He grabs her arm and pulls her up firmly.
She leans on him for a second, then sits on the curb.
Carefully pulls the nail out.
A little blood. Nothing serious.
She exhales.
"How's your research going?"
He crosses his arms.
"Not great."
"And what did your power say about Araque?"
He looks up at the sky for a moment, organizing his thoughts.
"I searched. Reviewed. Cross-referenced data."
Pause.
"None of the names Araque gave exist beyond soldiers from a nearby unit."
"Nearby unit?"
"Official. But small. And none of them are officially missing."
She frowns.
"And no one came to collect the bodies."
"No."
"Just calls."
He nods.
"Anonymous calls asking about 'procedure.'"
Brief silence.
He pulls a small evidence bag from his coat pocket.
Inside, dark stingers.
Irregular.
"I took the liberty of grabbing this."
She looks.
"Organic?"
"Yes."
He makes a face that mixes fascination and discomfort.
"They tested positive for seventy-eight individuals."
She blinks.
"Seventy-eight?"
"Mixed DNA. Like it's… a collective composition."
"Mega-beings?"
"Or chimeras."
Pause.
"But this smells like human hands."
She understands what he means.
Manipulation.
Intervention.
Project.
Not an accident.
She rests her elbows on her knees.
"And Araque?"
"He didn't lie."
"Nor did he tell the truth."
"Middle ground."
He looks at her.
"He knows exactly what he's doing."
She sighs.
"Maybe it's classified."
"Maybe."
"But they haven't done anything yet."
"Exactly."
He tilts his head slightly.
"It's a middle ground."
Silence.
Then he adds:
"I'm going to use Beker."
She immediately looks up.
"Not him."
"Why?"
"Because he shouts."
"Better a specialist who shouts than the two of us pretending we're looking at salt in a bag of sugar."
She almost laughs.
Almost.
But she knows he's right.
Beker is the kind of specialist who separates truth from lies like he's dismantling a machine.
Unpleasant.
But efficient.
She stands carefully, testing her foot.
"Schedule him for early tomorrow."
"Already scheduled."
She stares at him.
"You already knew you were going to use him?"
"True."
She shakes her head.
"You're unbearable."
"False."
She starts walking slowly.
He keeps pace.
The street is too quiet.
A case that isn't moving.
A survivor who isn't talking.
Stingers with seventy-eight DNAs.
But
There was still something.
He walks beside her, hands in his pockets, as if her fall had been light entertainment.
"You know… it'd be nice if you weren't so clumsy."
She stops walking for half a second.
Looks at him.
He continues:
"Like… what's your name again? Agent 'professional nail stepper'?"
She closes her eyes slowly.
Breathes.
"You bastard, shut up."
He smirks.
"I'm just trying to lighten the mood."
"You only talk like this when payday hits."
He feigns offense.
"That's a serious accusation."
"True or false?"
He stares ahead.
"…True."
She rolls her eyes.
"I knew it."
He adjusts his stride to match hers.
"I admit on payday I get more sociable."
"You get more unbearable."
"False."
"True."
He raises his hands in surrender.
"Okay, middle ground."
She limps slightly but doesn't slow down.
"You know I almost broke my foot, right?"
"Technically it was only a superficial puncture."
She stops again.
"Want to test it on yours?"
He takes two steps back.
"False. Definitely false."
She keeps walking.
The mood isn't as heavy as before.
The tension of the case is still there.
Araque is still there.
The seventy-eight DNAs.
Beker.
But on that nearly empty street, they seem like just two exhausted colleagues at the end of a shift.
He glances at her sideways.
"Seriously… you should pay more attention to where you step."
She answers without looking at him:
"I do."
Pause.
"It's just that sometimes the ground decides to attack too."
He chuckles softly.
"That's not how it works."
"In Shipsh?" she shoots back. "Sometimes that's exactly how it works."
Silence.
He doesn't disagree.
Because deep down, they both know:
Sometimes it's not the monster.
Not the suspect.
Not the survivor.
It's the small detail.
The nail on the ground.
That changes everything.
And tomorrow, with Beker involved,
The case will stop being a middle ground.