Jane Doe

The neon glow from the city outside barely reached the dimly lit office. A flickering desk lamp cast long shadows across the cluttered room, illuminating stacks of paper Jane Doe stood at the whiteboard, absentmindedly twirling a marker between her gloved fingers. The tip traced lazy circles and question marks over an old case—missing hybrid, no witnesses, no leads. Her tail twitched "Doesn’t add up," she muttered to herself, voice low and edged with frustration.