I, Detective Keir, slammed the arrest warrants onto my desk. My police unit had been wasting two weeks chasing phantom drivers, and the final solution didn't come from any of my detectives; it came straight from the DA's office. The official mandate landed—a search and arrest warrant signed by the Chief Prosecutor himself. I was furious. I knew exactly who had orchestrated this. The Analyst, that cold, quiet woman who had undermined my Thallium case from her desk, had done it again.
I spent the morning executing the warrants. We arrested the CEO and the Chairman and retrieved the Biometric Key exactly where the warrant indicated—hidden in the corporate tower's private server room. The DA had handed us the entire map.
That afternoon, I was down in the Central Police Records Vault, logging the mountain of evidence seized. The air was cold and smelled of old paper and dust. I looked up, and there she was—the Analyst. She wasn't carrying a weapon or wearing a uniform, just a stiff suit and a slim folder. She was here to sign off on the chain of custody for the key we recovered.
I walked straight up to her.
"Analyst," I started, keeping my tone carefully neutral. "You broke the case. You handed us everything. I need to know why you keep doing this."
She stopped signing the ledger and looked up at me. Her eyes held that same frightening, sharp intelligence I remembered from the Thallium case.
"My job is to ensure the DA's office prosecutes effectively, Detective," she replied, her voice low and efficient. "Your job is to provide the physical evidence to match the legal evidence. That is the system."
"The system is slow. You're fast," I countered, leaning against a file cabinet. "The fact is, you're the best analyst I've ever seen. You've saved my team two cases now. I've seen enough," I admitted, surprised by my own honesty. I decided to make the move, to breach the wall she constantly built. "Look, we're two sides of the same coin. I'd like to understand how you see things. Let's be friends."
She paused for a long beat, considering the request. Then, a ghost of a smile—a smirk—touched the corner of her lips. It was quick, cold, and utterly dismissive.
"I appreciate the professional courtesy, Detective Keir," she said, placing her pen down. "But I don't form friendships with the evidence providers."
She turned, collected her folder, and left the vault, leaving me standing with the heavy, cold key in my hand. Her refusal was absolute. I realized then that if I wanted to know the truth behind the Analyst, I'd have to find it the way she found her answers: through data, observation, and relentless analysis.
This wasn't just a professional rivalry anymore. I was curious about her. I was determined to understand the woman who solved murders in silence and refused human connection.
She turned, collected her folder, and left the vault, leaving me standing with the heavy, cold key in my hand. Her refusal was absolute. I realized then that if I wanted to know the truth behind the Analyst, I'd have to find it the way she found her answers: through data, observation, and relentless analysis.
This wasn't just a professional rivalry anymore. I was curious about her. I was determined to understand the woman who solved murders in silence and refused human connection. I would try being her friend many times, until that refusal was no longer an option.
My chance came two weeks later with the next case: a complex liability involving the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. A critical international trade treaty was found to be chemically contaminated—Oleander toxin introduced into the specialized ink—right before signing. The motive wasn't murder, but financial sabotage, requiring both forensic fieldwork (my unit) and document analysis (her unit).
The necessity of collaboration gave the Analyst the leverage she needed. Instead of dealing with me, she went straight to her boss, Mr. Kaito, and presented him with a memo: "To expedite the recovery of the treaty and identification of the contamination source, a temporary joint task force is required." Kaito approved the pairing immediately, valuing efficiency over departmental barriers.
I found myself near her almost every day. I tried being friendly—a quiet offer of coffee in the cafeteria, a nod in the parking garage. The colleagues from her department noticed immediately, their eyes following me, wondering if I was trying to pursue her or uncover the DA's strategy. Each attempt was met with her polite, icy refusal.
One afternoon, I cornered her by the records room. "You know, we've saved two lives and solved two conspiracies, and I still don't know your first name," I admitted.
She paused, considering the statement purely as a data point. Her reply was short, quiet, and cutting.
"Efficiency is rarely found in shared space, Detective."
That was the point of no return. The realization hit me—I had investigated her life's work, but not the simple truth of her identity. I was falling for a title.
"Look," I countered, desperation overriding professionalism. "Work with me on this one case. Just this one. If it doesn't work—if we don't find a better way to collaborate—I'll stop bothering you. I promise."
It was a professional bargain she accepted: "Very well, Detective. One case. Professionally."
Two days into the mandated joint work, we were transporting sealed forensic samples from the diplomatic compound back to the shared police lab. We were forced to use a seldom-used service elevator. Halfway between floors, the elevator screeched, jolted violently, and plunged us into darkness.
My training took over. I moved swiftly, positioning myself between her and the door, my body acting as a shield against potential danger. I was ready for panic, struggle, or a threat.
The emergency lights flickered on, casting a harsh, red glow.
I looked at the Analyst. She hadn't flinched. She didn't scream, jump, or even blink. In the seconds of absolute panic, she had remained perfectly still, her hands calmly resting on the sealed evidence box. She hadn't acknowledged the sudden danger or my presence protecting her. She was completely unbreakable.
In that claustrophobic, tense silence, I realized the depth of her control. It was terrifying and completely captivating. It was a sudden, absolute feeling born from witnessing her essential nature under duress.
I realized I had fallen for her.
The lights came back on, and the elevator continued its ascent.
"That was inefficient," the Analyst stated simply, looking at her wristwatch.
I just stared at her. I had fallen for the cold, analytical heart of the woman who didn't even notice she was being defended. She still didn't care.
The mandated joint task force started immediately, but the atmosphere was far from collaborative. Keir's team brought the heavy lift of the fieldwork—securing the diplomatic compound and questioning the staff. The Analyst's team took over the data: the digital records of the treaty itself and the chemical analysis of the contamination.
Their workspace was a small, temporary office in the Ministry annex. Keir was close enough to observe her constantly, noting how every pen was parallel and every file faced the same way—a physical manifestation of her perfectly ordered mind.
The contamination was quickly determined to be White Arsenic. It was subtly introduced into the specialized sealant used to protect the final copy of the treaty. It wasn't enough to kill, but enough to severely compromise the document's integrity and delay the signing for months, causing the intended diplomatic fallout. The unique chemical signature of this mineral poison required a specialized analytical approach, different from the organic toxins of previous cases.
Keir was focused on the "how"—the physical element. He questioned security, janitors, and high-ranking officials who had access to the printing room. All leads were clean; the compound security was flawless. He had no human suspect.
The Analyst, meanwhile, was focused on the "why," treating the paper itself as the victim.
"The contamination is limited to the final twenty-four hours," she informed him, without looking up. "We need the digital draft history. Find me every single person who made a single modification to the document within the last seventy-two hours, including font changes, metadata alterations, and even viewing logs."
Keir stared. His investigation was focused on fingerprints and physical breach; hers was focused on code and data alteration. He found himself spending his hours fulfilling her requests, watching her process with intense curiosity that bordered on obsession.
One afternoon, a stray lock of hair fell across her face. She didn't move. Keir found himself fighting the impulse to reach across the table and brush it back—an impulse that felt terrifyingly personal and completely inappropriate.
I don't even know her name. The fact hit him again like a cold slap. He was falling in love with a title.
When she finally spoke, her voice was sharp, pulling him out of his reflection.
"The digital logs are clean," she stated. "No unauthorized access, no data tampering. The poisoner wasn't interested in changing the treaty; they were interested in delaying it."
She then presented him with a list of four names—not security personnel, but financial analysts attached to the foreign ministry delegation.
"These four individuals had no access to the physical document," she explained. "But they each created significant, unauthorized short-sell positions against the national currency futures of our trade partner, hours before the treaty contamination was confirmed. The failure of the signing would have been immensely profitable for them."
The motive was revealed: not diplomatic sabotage, but financial arbitrage—a highly sophisticated insider trading scheme. The poisoning was a guaranteed market event.
"I need you to bring them in, Detective," she said, her voice purely professional.
"Immediately. They sold the nation short."
Keir looked from the four names to her face. She had solved the crime without ever leaving the annex, turning a high-stakes diplomatic crisis into a simple case of corporate fraud. He had the physical evidence; she had the analytical proof.
He realized the danger in working with her: the closer he got to her brilliance, the farther away he felt from her heart. But he had to finish the case first.
Keir acted immediately. The Analyst's evidence was purely digital—four names and a timestamped record of illegal short-sell positions placed against the currency of the trade partner. It was enough for the DA to issue warrants for financial crimes, and it gave Keir the leverage he needed for the arrests.
He mobilized his team, striking fast and simultaneously at the four financial analysts attached to the foreign ministry. The arrests were clean, but tense. These weren't street criminals; they were well-dressed professionals who thought their insider trading scheme was perfectly safe under the cover of a massive diplomatic incident.
Back at the annex, Keir strode into the makeshift office. The Analyst was already packing her slim folder, the case closed for her
"They're in custody," Keir confirmed, tossing the arrest documents onto the table. "They sold the nation short. It was financial arbitrage, just like you said. No diplomatic sabotage, just greed."
He waited for a reaction—a sign of satisfaction, perhaps even a brief moment of camaraderie.
She glanced at the documents. "The outcome was predictable, Detective. When the physical evidence is clean, the motive is always in the metadata."
"But how did they introduce the Arsenic into the sealant?" Keir pressed, frustrated by her immediate withdrawal. "We checked their physical access. They weren't in the printing room."
"Irrelevant to the prosecution," she countered. "The digital proof of the financial crime is sufficient to secure conviction for conspiracy. The method of contamination is secondary."
"Secondary?" Keir's voice tightened. "It's a poisoned treaty! That's the murder element of the case, Analyst. I need the human how."
She sighed, a sound so faint it was more a ripple in the air than a breath. She opened a separate file, revealing a grainy photo taken from a distant building's security feed.
"They didn't need physical access to the room," she explained, pointing to one of the four arrested analysts. "They needed access to one person: the cleaning supervisor, who had a gambling problem. They paid him to swap out the specialized sealant bottle in the printing room with a counterfeit one. The Arsenic was introduced via the cleaning supervisor, who had no idea what he was transporting."
She had solved the physical aspect, too. She just hadn't felt the need to tell him until he specifically asked.
"You had this all along," Keir realized, his frustration dissolving into admiration.
"The analysis was complete an hour ago," she confirmed. She zipped her folder. "The terms of our agreement have been met, Detective. The case is closed. Our collaboration is concluded."
Keir watched her stand up, her eyes already distant. He knew his bargain—one case, and then he would stop bothering her—was technically up. He had failed to breach her professional armor, but he had succeeded in falling completely and hopelessly in love with the unyielding logic of her mind.
"I still don't know your name," he said, the truth hitting him with surprising force.
She paused at the door. Her back was to him. "It's irrelevant to the DA's work, Detective Keir. Good day."
She left the annex, leaving him alone with the silent desks and the overwhelming realization that the professional arrangement was over, and his personal, unrequited pursuit was just beginning.