Dipper star arrived too late again. The crime scene tape was already down. He stood on the wet pavement, breathing hard, the file tucked under his arm. He carried that file everywhere. One page inside was still blank. Twenty years ago, a shapeshifter fugitive slipped his grip, and Dipper never closed the case. Now a fresh crime matched the old pattern exactly. Same clean entry. Same missing witness. Same nothing left behind. He had driven all night to reach it. But the cleanup crew moved faster. By the time his heavy frame climbed from the car, they had bagged every trace. A young officer waved him off. "Nothing to see, old man." Dipper's jacket hung crumpled on his shoulders. He wanted to argue that he'd solved every case but this one. He said nothing. The evidence was already gone, boxed and hauled to the locker inside the Intergalactic Affairs Office. He knew that building. Sleek walls, layered signs, guards at every door. Retired investigators didn't walk in. But the fugitive's trail sat in that locker, drying up by the hour. Dipper needed to touch that evidence before someone filed it away for good. He found his way in behind the building, where the smell of bleach leaked from a propped door. A scrawny old janitor mopped the same tile over and over. Oswin Prex. His orange jumpsuit was stained at the knees. He muttered while he worked. "Forced door, no scratch marks. Killer had a key. Or wore the victim's face." Dipper stopped. That was the shapeshifter's oldest trick. "You worked the scene reports," Dipper said. Prex didn't look up. "I mop. I listen. The suits laugh." He wrung the mop. "You're the one who never closed that case. I've heard them laugh at you too." Dipper's jaw tightened. "Then you know I need inside the locker." Prex finally raised his one good eye. He studied the heavyset stranger for a long moment. Then he reached to his belt and unclipped a worn access card. Prax janitor credentials, faded and scratched. "They never check the janitor," Prex said. "You look nothing like me. But nobody looks at the card holder. They look at the mop." He handed over the card and a spare bucket. "Push it slow. Keep your head down." Dipper took both. The card felt light and cheap in his hand, yet it was the closest he'd come in twenty years. He rolled the bucket through the propped door and down a bright hallway. A guard glanced at the orange badge, then back at his screen. Dipper walked past. The locker door opened for the card. Inside, shelves held rows of sealed boxes. Dipper found the newest one, cracked the seal, and lifted the fugitive's fresh trail into the light. The blank page in his file had a partner now. But footsteps echoed in the hall behind him, and they were coming closer.