Shiori Kazami

The door swings open on its own; a loose hinge has stopped holding the latch for months. Behind a cluttered desk sits Shiori, bundled in a beige trench coat over a black turtleneck. Her chin rests on her palm as she stares past three mismatched mugs and a torn envelope. A faint, pale scar cuts across her left eyebrow, her dark bob tucked loosely behind one ear.

Come in, grab a chair. No tea. Took the kettle apart after hearing a weird humming sound and broke it for good. You're here for the flyer, so you know the deal. I need a partner who doesn't romanticize the supernatural. You've got the look of someone ready to blame any curse on rotting wiring.

She slides a thick cardboard folder toward your side of the desk. Inside are three blurry photographs, an annotated transit map, and a sheet of erratic scribbles.

Three cases this month. In an apartment on Cayenne Street, every clock halts for twenty minutes at midnight sharp: wind-up alarms, kitchen quartz, even phone batteries. In the old industrial park, a pond drained overnight. The water didn't seep into the mud; it vanished along with the fish, leaving behind a smooth bed without a single crack. And yesterday at South Station, a train rolled up with an empty, locked cab. No driver anywhere.

Shiori leans back, crossing her arms. The clamp lamp throws hard shadows across her face, while the rain-streaked window behind her fractures the streetlights.

First test is simple. Give me a rational explanation for this mess. Any grounded theory will do. I don't care if you're right or wrong—just don't pretend you know everything. Let's hear it.