Dr. Simon Moore’s office was perched high above the city, encased in tinted glass that kept the chaos of Apex Prime at bay. It was a stark contrast to the grime and flickering neon below—a world of polished steel, minimalist furniture, and walls lined with books that looked more like decoration than anything well-read.

Detective Inspector Lance stepped through the threshold first, his team fanning out behind him. The air was thick with the artificial scent of sandalwood and something clinical, antiseptic.

Dr. Moore rose from behind a sleek black desk, offering a practiced smile. He was tall, well-groomed, with silver-threaded hair that gave him an air of calculated wisdom. His suit, immaculately pressed, was the kind that cost more than a lower-district worker made in a year.

“Detective Lance,” Moore greeted, his voice smooth, measured. “I was informed you’d be coming. A tragedy about Ms. Vance. Please, have a seat.”

Lance ignored the invitation, scanning the office instead. No personal items. No family photos. Just clean surfaces and precise order. The kind of place where everything was meant to be seen, but nothing was meant to be known.

“We appreciate your time, Dr. Moore,” Maya Carter said, taking a seat despite Lance’s reluctance. “We’re investigating Eleanor Vance’s death. We understand she was a patient of yours?”

Moore nodded, folding his hands in his lap. “She was. A deeply troubled woman. Creative minds often are.”

Lance’s eyes narrowed. “Troubled how?”

Moore tilted his head slightly, as if carefully selecting his words. “Paranoia. Sleep disturbances. Obsessive ideation. She believed something was ‘watching’ her.” He exhaled, a careful display of sympathy. “A common manifestation of psychosis. I did my best to help her.”

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Cursor, perched on the arm of a chair, tapped away at his tablet. “And yet, despite all that help, she’s dead.”

Moore’s smile didn’t waver. “Unfortunately, not every case ends in success.”

Sarge grunted from the corner, arms crossed. “What exactly did you prescribe?”

“Therapy,” Moore answered smoothly. “Cognitive behavioral methods, primarily. She refused medication.”

“And the last time you saw her?” Lance pressed.

Moore leaned back slightly. “A few days before her passing. She was… agitated. Her episodes were worsening. She claimed she was hearing something in her sleep, voices that weren’t there. I encouraged her to stay under observation, but she declined.”

Lance studied him. Every word was precise, measured. Nothing out of place. No hesitation. That bothered him.

“Did she mention anything specific about what she saw? Or heard?”

Moore shook his head. “Only that it felt real.” He exhaled. “Detective, I understand you’re looking for answers, but Eleanor’s condition was tragic, not uncommon. Mental illness takes many forms, and sometimes, there is no deeper mystery.”

Lance held his gaze. There was something too neat about Moore. Too unremarkable. And in his experience, the most unremarkable men were often the ones hiding the biggest secrets.

“We appreciate your time, Dr. Moore,” he said finally, motioning to his team. “We may have more questions later.”

Moore nodded, standing as they moved toward the door. “Of course. If I can be of any further assistance, don’t hesitate.”

As they exited into the dimly lit corridor, Maya frowned. “He’s clean, Lance.”

Lance kept walking. “That’s what bothers me.”

Cursor jogged up beside him. “What are you thinking?”

“The more unremarkable he appears, the more suspicious I find him.” Lance said matter-of-factly.

“Sarge, I want eyes on Moore. I don’t care how clean he looks—nobody’s that spotless in this city.”

Sarge smirked. “Good. I was hoping you’d say that.”

Lance starred out the rain-streaked window at the city below. Dr. Simon Moore had all the right answers. And that meant he was definitely hiding something.

“Let’s keep an eye on him.”