It began with silence.
Not the reverent kind reserved for ceremonies. Not the graveyard hush of dread. Just a clean, deliberate stillness—too perfect to be accidental.
The Bureau's main hall, usually clattering with boots, murmurs, and the low hum of frustration, had fallen wordless.
Chairs scraped back an inch less than usual. Detectives straightened—subtly, self-consciously. Even the old benches near the walls, usually reserved for worn-out soles and missed promotions, were suddenly full.
Then, the doors opened.
No one announced him. No one needed to.
The man who entered didn't cut a striking figure at first glance. He wore no medals. No crest. No mantle of rank. Just a dark travel cloak and quiet footsteps.
But his presence was loud. The air changed—thicker, slower. Time, for a moment, seemed to defer to him.
He scanned the room once.
Half the hall stopped breathing.
Captain Rourke was already walking toward him.
"High Detective Alveth," the Captain greeted, voice clipped and formal. "We're honored."
Alveth inclined his head, just slightly. "I hope that's not sarcasm, Rourke."
"Only the honest kind."
Alveth's lips twitched—barely. A fragment of a smile. Then it was gone.
"I've reviewed the docket," he said. "I'll observe three active investigations. One from last cycle. Two ongoing."
"And the detectives?"
"I'll choose them myself."
He turned toward the wide briefing table near the front, where sealed files lay in neat, anxious rows.
He walked without urgency. He did not swagger. But everyone watched him like he did.
His shadow stretched across names, ranks, and unfinished reports.
Then, without looking up, he reached out and circled a single name.
"Perry," he said.
Captain Rourke's brow twitched. "You're sure?"
"I read his last four reports. They're stitched like a lunatic's quilt—but somehow, nothing leaks. I want to see if it's intuition or madness."
"Understood."
---
Perry stood in the debriefing room with his arms folded, expression unreadable as Rourke dropped a file onto the table.
"I don't suppose this is about a raise," Perry said.
"You've been chosen."
"By a generous lottery system, or divine wrath?"
"Alveth."
Perry blinked once. "Ah. Divine wrath, then."
Rourke sat with a grunt. "You'll be observed. That's all."
"By the man rumored to have fired his last partner for chewing too loud during deduction. Encouraging."
Rourke passed him the file without answering.
Crime scene: underground theatre.
Deceased: one performer.
Method of death: unknown.
Magic residue: none.
Wounds: none.
Witnesses: five.
Suspicion: all.
Clarity: none.
Perry closed the file, slowly.
"Let me guess. He vanished in a rune chamber and reappeared mid-bow with his soul already on lunch break."
"Essentially," said Rourke.
"No forced entry?"
"Only applause."
"And no trace magic?"
Rourke shrugged. "Arcane performers. You know how they are. Enchanted illusions. Flare and no flame."
Perry tucked the file under his arm. "Lovely. My favorite genre: death without evidence."
"You'll do fine. Try not to disappoint the High Detective."
"Oh, I won't. But expectations are a dangerous thing to have around me."
---
The theatre crouched below a ruined arena, deep in the city's foundation. It smelled of wet limestone and melting wax and an oddly sour metallic note.
The stage still bore the remnants of a show: cracked illusion panels, frayed curtains, and one half-sawed prop box tipped against a corner.
Perry stepped through the entryway and into the dim-lit main hall. A tall man with polished boots and a scowl awaited him.
"Lord Derran," Perry said, with a nod.
The noble straightened. "And you are?"
"The Bureau sent me."
"You look like you were not their first choice."
"Correct. I was the second. The first disappeared during the finale."
Derran stared, lips parting.
Perry took a step closer, letting his gaze drift lazily down.
His eyes paused—just briefly—on the man's boots.
Fine, polished. But the scuffing on the sides, not the front, didn't match someone who had only been standing in the audience. And there—a speck of crushed wax dust clinging to the inside of his right heel.
Stage wax, Perry thought. Used for fire illusion runes. Audience never walks near it.
His expression didn't change.
"Were you present at the act?" Perry asked.
"I was."
"You attempted to leave, didn't you?"
"Excuse me?"
He said nothing, letting his gaze flick again—this time, purposefully—toward the exit.
Derran followed it instinctively, taking a single step.
The air shimmered. A soft hum filled the space. Something invisible vibrated as he neared the door—and Derran recoiled.
"What in the gods' names was that?"
"Don't touch it," Perry said simply. "Truth-Lock Barrier."
"That's not Bureau standard."
"Neither is dying onstage. We're all adapting."
The noble's eyes narrowed—but he said nothing further.
---
The interviews were slow, and Perry preferred them that way.
One performer—the apprentice—claimed he was under the stage, adjusting rune sequences for the lighting. Hadn't seen anything.
The rune technician swore the prop cabinet hadn't been touched from the outside—she'd been hiding inside it to "enhance the immersion." No clue how the victim died.
The lead arcane performer fidgeted constantly, his laughter forced, guiltless but hollow. Claimed the sequence was unchanged.
The noble, Derran, stayed near the exit, muttering about wasted time.
And one rival enchanter wasn't even in the building—supposedly held outside by guards due to prior "behavioral issues." His alibi reeked of improvisation.
Not one had a clean answer. But not one had a bloodied hand, either.
Perry sat on an overturned crate, fidgeting with a length of frayed rope.
He wasn't looking for fingerprints. He was looking for a reason someone would kill a man so cleanly—with no splash, no trace, no mess.
Too clean meant premeditated. Not passionate. And that narrowed the suspect pool.
System: Case previously filed. Immunity status: continuously active.
He blinked.
"Right," he muttered. "Still nice to hear it out loud."
System: You are the one who filed 'Why Was I Reincarnated?' as a standing investigation. Immunity persists indefinitely unless case is withdrawn.
"I wasn't talking to you."
System: You were muttering. I responded.
He rolled his eyes.
Someone cleared their throat behind him.
"You're Perry, aren't you?"
The voice belonged to a woman—Bureau uniform. Her coat bore the mark of a Senior Detective, like his. Her eyes were sharp, but her stance casual.
"Unfortunately, yes," he said.
She leaned against a curtain rod.
"You've been chosen," she said. "That means you're interesting. And dangerous."
"To who? Suspects or their self-esteem?"
"To Alveth."
Perry narrowed his eyes.
"He collects people," she continued. "Not literally. Just watches. Observes. The ones who make strange decisions."
"Well," Perry said. "I try to disappoint expectations daily."
She smiled faintly and walked off.
---
At the Bureau, Perry dropped the case file on the submission desk.
He signed it, stamped it, and handed it off with the same expression one might give a laundry receipt.
System: Case submission recorded. Investigation parameters sealed. Truth-lock disengaged.
He stepped back into the hallway.
And saw him.
Alveth, standing at the far end. Silent. Still. Watching.
He didn't approach. He didn't speak.
Just nodded once.
Perry returned it.
Not with respect.
With acknowledgment.
They didn't know each other yet.
But one of them was watching.
And the other had nothing to hide.