Part 2- The Gallery of Lies
Morning sunlight slipped through the blinds as Rowden Elias entered his office, sighing into his first sip of coffee. The quiet was comforting — the kind of silence only early mornings in the station could offer.
Then—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Rowden frowned, stood up, and opened the door.
No one. The hallway was completely empty.
"…That's weird," he muttered.
He shut the door, turned back toward his desk—
And froze.
Hanging upside down outside his window like a bat in a fancy coat was Phantom, waving enthusiastically.
"Good morning, Inspector!"
Rowden almost dropped his coffee. "PHANTOM?!"
There was nothing holding him there. No rope. No ledge. No harness. Just… gravity deciding to take a personal day.
Phantom tapped gently on the glass, then pushed the window open, flipping right-side-up with the grace of someone who'd rehearsed this a thousand times.
He landed in the office without a sound.
Rowden pointed at him, voice cracking.
"How— how in the HOLY MOTHER did you do that!?"
Phantom brushed a nonexistent speck of dust off his sleeve.
"Darling," he said with that infuriating half-smile,
"That's simply part of the magic."
Rowden shoved his head out the window, scanning for ropes, platforms, hooks — anything.
There was nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
"Dear," Phantom sighed, taking Rowden by the collar and gently pulling him back inside,
"stop trying to understand it. Trust me, it'll only give you wrinkles."
Before Rowden could form a reply, the office phone rang sharply.
He darted to it.
"Inspector Elias speaking."
A beat.
"Okay."
Another pause.
"Got it. I'll be there as fast as possible."
He hung up, face suddenly serious, flipping open his notebook.
"Someone stole a painting from the museum."
Phantom leaned against the wall.
"A painting?" he said. "Ooh, classy."
Rowden glared at him.
"This isn't funny."
"Oh, I never said it was funny," Phantom replied, grin growing wider.
"But it is interesting."
Rowden grabbed his coat. "Come on. We're going."
Phantom perked up.
"Ah! So I'm officially your partner now?"
Rowden muttered, already halfway out the door,
"Unfortunately… yes."
Phantom floated behind him — literally floated — hands tucked behind his back, humming cheerfully.
"Oh inspector" phantom said, his tune soft almost flarty, "your going to love this case"
"Why?" Rowden asked.
Pantom smiled and got closer, "because" he whispered in his ear "you have me"
They stepped out of the office.
And the new case began.
---
Police tape fluttered in the breeze at the entrance of the Arden Vale Museum of Art, two wide yellow lines forming a bright "DO NOT CROSS" barrier.
Two officers stood guard—if "stood guard" was even the right term.
The first officer was digging so deep in his nose that he could've discovered ancient ruins.
The second leaned against the wall, eyes half–closed, drifting in and out of sleep.
Rowdn stopped at the foot of the stairs and blinked twice.
"…This is the security for a robbery scene?" he muttered.
Phantom tilted his head, amused.
"Charming, aren't they?"
As soon as the two officers noticed Rowdn walking up the steps, they jolted like someone shocked them with electricity.
They snapped to attention so fast their spines made audible cracks.
"S–Sir! Inspector Elias, sir!!"
"W–We were guarding the entrance! Very alert, sir! Extremely alert!"
The first officer saluted with the same hand he just used for gold–mining in his nostril.
Rowdn flinched so hard he nearly stepped back down the stairs.
"Please," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, "explain what happened here."
The two officers looked at each other.
Then they opened their mouths at the same time.
"Itwaslikethis–andthenweheard–butthenIthink–butalso–Imeanmaybe–butthedoor–no–yes–I–"
Rowdn raised a hand.
"Stop. Stop. STOP. I can feel my brain melting."
The officers fell silent, standing stiff as boards.
Rowdn sighed, brushed past them, and marched toward the museum doors.
Phantom lingered behind, smiling sweetly at the guards.
"Gentlemen," he said, bowing dramatically, "you're doing a splendid job."
The two officers puffed their chests proudly.
Which is exactly why they didn't notice Phantom's hands blur for half a second.
click.
click.
When Phantom skipped after Rowdn, the officers suddenly tried to step aside—and found themselves stuck.
They looked down.
Their handcuffs were somehow looped together between their wrists.
"What the—?"
"H–How did—?"
"Were we—always like this?"
"I don't think—ow, stop pulling!"
Phantom wiggled the shiny key between his fingers as he followed Rowden inside.
He whispered under his breath,
"Consider it… community service."
Rowden glanced back at him suspiciously.
"What did you do?"
"Nothing," Phantom said innocently.
Rowden groaned.
---
The museum's marble lobby echoed with muffled sobs the moment Rowden and Phantom stepped inside.
A tall woman in her fifties — broad-shouldered, dramatic, and emotionally explosive — spotted them.
Her eyes widened.
Then she charged.
"OH THANK HEAVENS YOU'RE HERE!!" she wailed.
Before Phantom could react, she wrapped him in a crushing bear hug, burying his face against her shoulder.
"Mmph—! Madam—!" Phantom choked, arms pinned to his sides.
"I—I'm not trained for this level of emotional damage—!"
Rowden blinked.
"That's… not the inspector," he tried to say.
Too late.
The woman clung to Phantom like he was a life raft in an ocean of despair.
Meanwhile, the museum manager — a thin man with round glasses and panic in every breath — hurried over to Rowden.
"Inspector Elias! Thank goodness you're here!"
Behind him, the artist stood trembling, hands knotted together, hair disheveled, clearly one hysterical inhale away from passing out.
Rowden straightened. "Tell me exactly what happened."
As the manager launched into an explanation, the sobbing woman in the background continued shaking Phantom like a wet mop.
"I—I don't even know what she's saying anymore!" Phantom squeaked from inside her chokehold.
All that could be seen of him was one gloved hand weakly reaching out for help.
Rowden tried to ignore the chaos.
"This is Mr. Carver," the manager said, motioning to the trembling artist. "He's the painter of the stolen piece."
Carver stepped forward, voice trembling.
"It… it took me five years to finish that painting, Inspector. Five years of my soul. I poured everything I had into it."
Tears welled in his eyes. "You must find it. Please."
Rowden put a hand on his shoulder.
"We will find it. I promise."
At that exact moment—
FOOMPH!
A dramatic cloud of purple smoke burst in the background.
The crying woman stumbled back coughing, and Phantom shot out of the cloud like a desperate cat escaping a bath.
He gasped for air.
"She almost crushed my lungs into modern art!"
Rowden rubbed his temples. "Where are you going now?"
Phantom pointed dramatically toward the hallway.
"To look for clues!" he declared.
And before Rowden could ask how he planned to do that—
POOF!
He vanished again in another puff of smoke.
A beat of silence.
Rowden sighed.
The museum manager whispered, nervously,
"…Is he allowed to do that?"
Rowden stared at the dissolving smoke trail.
"No," he said flatly, "but he's going to do it anyway."
---
Rowden walked deeper into the west hallway of the museum, notebook in hand. The place was quiet — too quiet. Rows of marble statues stood on each side of the corridor, each frozen in a dramatic heroic pose.
He frowned, scanning for footprints, scratches, anything.
Behind him, faint footsteps echoed.
He turned.
Nothing.
Just statues.
"…Alright," he muttered, "focus."
He stepped forward again.
Another soft shuffle.
Rowden's brow twitched. He spun around much faster this time—
Still nothing…
Except—
On the far left, one of the statues seemed… newer.
Shinier.
Taller.
And wearing a suspiciously familiar smirk.
Rowden squinted.
"…Phantom?"
The "statue" didn't move.
Rowden stepped closer.
"Phantom… I swear to the heavens above—"
The statue suddenly winked.
Rowden jumped back so hard he almost slipped.
"STOP DOING THAT!" he snapped, voice cracking.
Phantom dropped the pose instantly, stretching his arms like he just finished yoga.
"Oh relax, inspector. You walked past me three whole times. That's impressive! Usually people scream on the first pass."
"That's because NORMAL people don't disguise themselves as thirteen-foot statues!"
Phantom pouted.
"Six-foot-two, thank you very much."
Rowden dragged a hand down his face.
"Just—come on. We're working."
They walked side by side down the corridor — Rowden with purposeful steps, Phantom gliding a few inches above the floor like a smug ghost.
"So!" Phantom hummed. "What's your theory, dear inspector?"
Rowden kept his eyes ahead.
"Someone got in, avoided the guards, avoided the cameras, removed a frame worth half a million dollars, and vanished without a trace."
"Sounds fun," Phantom said cheerfully.
"Nothing about this is fun."
"That's because you have no imagination."
Before Rowden could respond, his flashlight caught something on the ground.
He crouched.
A faint print.
The shape of a shoe sole — smeared slightly, but clear enough to recognize.
"There," Rowden said. "Our first clue."
Phantom leaned over his shoulder, upside down, floating like an annoying chandelier.
"Oooh, inspector, you found something."
Rowden ignored the hovering head beside him.
"It's a boot. Narrow shape. Sharp toe. Expensive stitching."
Phantom grinned.
"Sounds like someone with taste."
Rowden shot him a sideways glare.
"You sound like you recognize it."
Phantom opened his mouth—
then shut it.
Then whispered,
"…Maybe."
Rowden stood up.
"Explain."
Phantom tapped his lips.
"No. Not yet. I want to check something first."
He snapped his fingers and vanished into thin air.
Rowden groaned loudly into the empty hallway.
"…I hate magic."
Rowden let out one last frustrated sigh and forced himself to keep walking.
He swept his flashlight along the walls, then up toward the ceiling—
And froze.
The metal ventilation grate above him was dangling open.
Screws loose.
Dust disturbed.
"…What the—?"
He stepped closer and pulled over a small maintenance ladder leaning against the wall.
Probably left from a cleaning shift.
Rowden climbed up and poked his head into the vent.
It wasn't just a vent.
It was a full crawlspace tunnel, wide enough for a person to move through.
Left… right… both directions seemed endless.
A perfect hidden path above every gallery.
And only someone who worked here would know it existed.
Rowden's throat tightened.
"This wasn't luck," he whispered.
"This was planned.
Whoever did this knows the museum inside and out."
He climbed down slowly, boots hitting the floor with a soft thud.
For the first time this morning, the case felt real.
No magic.
No illusions.
Just a thief who had done their homework.
---
Back at the Entrance
Rowden walked back toward the main hall, notebook open, ready to begin the first round of questioning—
Only to see Phantom had returned.
And the crying woman had spotted him instantly.
"Ohhh my HERO!!" she wailed.
Before Phantom could escape, she wrapped him in another massive bear hug, crushing the air out of his lungs.
Phantom's eyes bulged.
"H–help—! Inspector—! She's cracking my ribs—!"
Rowden pinched the bridge of his nose, then physically pried her arms off him.
"Ma'am, please—Phantom has… a personal space limit."
"She is a monster…" Phantom gasped dramatically, collapsing to his knees.
Rowden ignored that.
"We're starting the investigation. Come on."
Phantom sprang up immediately, all suffering forgotten.
---
Inside the Manager's Office — Interrogation Begins
The manager's office was cramped, lined with dusty shelves and paperwork piles that could bury a man alive.
Rowden sat behind the desk.
Two chairs in front of him.
On those chairs sat…
the two security guards from outside.
Nervous.
Sweaty.
Looking like schoolchildren waiting for punishment.
Rowden folded his arms.
"Alright," he said, voice stern.
"You two were on duty. Tell me exactly what happened last night."
The guards looked at each other, then launched into a chaotic mess of words:
"Well–we–heard–a–sound–maybe–but–then–I–think–we–thought–it–was–a–cat–but–then–no–I–think–it–was–a–rat–unless–it–was–a—"
Rowden slammed his notebook on the desk.
"STOP.
Just… one at a time."
Silence.
The two guards stared at him like frightened puppies.
Phantom, standing against the wall, watched the scene unfold with the gentlest smile.
Then he walked over to the two guards… and crouched.
"Hey," he said softly, "you two are doing amazing."
The guards blinked.
He reached into his coat and pulled out two brightly colored candies.
"Here. For bravery."
Their faces lit up like children receiving gold stars.
"T–thank you, sir Phantom!!"
Phantom patted them gently on the shoulders.
"That's right. Now don't cry, okay? You're very important officers."
They straightened up proudly.
Rowden stared at Phantom, baffled.
"How—how did you do that?"
Phantom turned to him with a dead-serious expression.
"Inspector," he whispered, "it cannot possibly be them."
"Why?"
Phantom leaned closer.
"…Because they are FAR too stupid."
The two guards nodded happily, not understanding a thing.
Rowden exhaled.
"Fine. Next suspects."
Rowden dismissed the two guards with a tired wave of his hand.
They left the office proudly sucking their candies like kindergarten heroes.
Rowden straightened his coat, cracked his neck once, and said:
"Bring in the manager."
A moment later, the museum manager entered — thin, pale, shaking like a leaf in a tornado. He sat on the chair with a loud thump and began wiping sweat from his forehead before anyone even asked a question.
Rowden studied him with narrow eyes.
"Mr. Fletcher," he said slowly, "you've worked here for…?"
"T–twenty-two years!" the manager blurted. "Never been late once! Never stole anything! I mean—no one said I stole anything—right?!"
Rowden and Phantom exchanged a glance.
Rowden folded his arms.
"Mr. Fletcher… someone accessed the ventilation crawlspace. That requires detailed knowledge of the building."
Fletcher swallowed hard.
"And according to the records," Rowden continued, leaning closer,
"you are one of the only people who knows the entire internal layout of the museum."
The manager's face turned white as chalk.
Not pale—ghostly.
"I—Inspector—I swear— I had nothing to do with it! I don't even LIKE the vents! They smell like old socks!!"
Rowden raised an eyebrow.
"Then perhaps you can explain how the thief knew exactly which maintenance tunnels to use?"
"I—I—well—maybe—maybe they guessed?"
Rowden's tone sharpened.
"They guessed… a thirty–year-old structural blueprint that isn't even public?"
The manager inhaled like a man being strangled by invisible hands.
Phantom stepped forward lightly.
"Inspector," he murmured coolly, "you're scaring him."
"He should be scared if he's guilty."
Phantom shook his head.
"No… inspector."
He walked around the terrified manager, circling him like a cat studying prey.
"…that man is too frightened of air, dust, and his own shoelaces to crawl through ventilation tunnels."
Fletcher nodded rapidly.
"Yes! Exactly! Inspect—wait—HEY!"
Rowden glared.
"Oh, so now you're suddenly the expert, Phantom?"
Phantom rested his hand over his heart.
"Always. But feel free to ignore my genius."
Rowden groaned.
"We are NOT ruling him out. Not yet. He had access, knowledge, and motive."
"What motive?" Phantom asked.
Rowden shrugged.
"He looks like someone who'd panic over overdue bills."
"I DO!!" Fletcher cried.
"See?" Rowden said, pointing.
Phantom rolled his eyes.
"Darling, if he did it, I will personally eat my gloves."
The manager blinked.
"…Please don't eat gloves in my office."
Rowden pinched the bridge of his nose.
"We need evidence. Until then… you're not cleared."
Fletcher whimpered softly as he was escorted out.
"Bring in the woman who hugged half the oxygen out of you."
Phantom instantly pressed himself flat against the wall like a terrified gecko.
"N–no. NO. She can't come in here. That beast nearly killed me."
Rowden smirked.
"Relax. She's just a witness."
"She is a WRESTLING MOVE IN HUMAN FORM," Phantom hissed.
The office door opened.
And there she was.
The giant woman swept inside, shoulders broad enough to block the sun.
"OH THANK YOU FOR SEEING ME, INSPECTOR—"
She spotted Phantom.
"MY SWEET ANGEL!!"
Phantom let out a pathetic squeak and practically climbed the wall.
"No hugs! No touching! I bruise easily!!"
The woman pouted but finally sat down.
Rowden cleared his throat, notebook ready.
"Ma'am, please state your name and your connection to the painting."
She sniffled loudly.
"I'm Mrs. Hazel Crumpleberg. I'm the museum's cleaning supervisor… and I LOVED that painting. It brought me comfort every night after mopping the lobby…"
Phantom whispered under his breath, still stuck to the wall:
"She brings ME trauma."
Rowden elbowed him.
"Stop."
Hazel continued dramatically:
"I just want whoever stole it to be pummeled, smashed, crushed—"
Phantom swallowed nervously.
"Inspector… I would like to formally request a different interrogation room."
Rowden ignored him.
"Mrs. Crumpleberg," he said, "did you see anything unusual last night?"
She shook her head.
"No. Nothing. Just me… alone… cleaning… thinking about my late husband… Gerald…"
Rowden waited.
Hazel wiped a tear.
Phantom whispered:
"Oh no… she cries again… inspector, hold me— no wait, don't!"
Hazel suddenly brightened.
"But I did hear… footsteps. Above me. In the ceiling."
Rowden froze.
"Above you?"
She nodded.
"Running. Like someone crawling fast across the vents."
Phantom stopped clinging to the wall.
His eyes sharpened.
Rowden turned slowly toward him.
"You hearing this?"
Phantom nodded.
"…Someone was up there, inspector. And not just passing through."
Rowden's jaw tightened.
"The thief used the vents."
Hazel raised her hand timidly.
"Oh… also I found this on the floor."
She handed Rowden a small object.
A button.
Red.
Fancy.
With a gold rim.
---
Everyone was gathered in the museum's main hall now — lined up in a straight row like nervous suspects in a detective drama gone slightly off-rails.
The two guards stood stiff as broomsticks.
Mrs. Crumpleberg clutched a tissue, dabbing at her eyes.
The artist Carver trembled behind his paint-stained hands.
The manager, Mr. Fletcher, was shaking so badly that his glasses had fogged over completely.
Rowden walked slowly in front of them, hands behind his back, expression cold and sharp.
Phantom floated casually above the floor behind him, humming something suspiciously cheerful.
Rowden stopped.
He turned.
He pointed directly at the manager.
"Mr. Fletcher… you're under arrest."
Gasps.
Carver nearly fainted.
Mrs. Crumpleberg dropped her tissue.
The guards clapped before realizing that wasn't appropriate.
Rowden motioned with two fingers.
"Cuff him."
The guards awkwardly shuffled toward the panicking manager. One tripped over his own foot. The other almost cuffed himself first. But eventually — somehow — they managed to get the handcuffs around Fletcher's wrists.
Rowden nodded.
"This case is closed. The manager had knowledge of the vents, full access to building plans, and—"
A sharp voice sliced through the room.
"STOP."
Everyone turned.
Phantom was hovering a few feet in the air, coat drifting like a cape, eyes suddenly serious.
He raised one gloved hand.
"I want everyone… to pause."
A hush fell.
Rowden's jaw tightened.
"Phantom, what are you doing?"
Phantom lowered himself gracefully, landing in front of the crowd. He looked around, gaze sharp in a way none of them had seen before.
"Inspector Elias," he said quietly, "you're about to make a very big mistake."
Rowden glared.
"We have motive, access, and fear. That's enough for suspicion."
Phantom shook his head.
"No. It isn't. Not this time."
He turned to the crowd.
"I would like to shed some light… on the truth of this little mystery."
The room held its breath.
Even the guards stopped chewing their candy.
Rowden crossed his arms.
"Fine. Talk."
Phantom smirked — a slow, confident smirk that promised things were about to get very, very interesting.
"Excellent," he said softly.
Phantom took a step forward, hands clasped neatly behind his back, eyes bright.
"So," he began, "here is what happened… according to the testimony of a certain lady among us."
He lifted his hand and revealed the red button between his fingers, letting it catch the light.
"This little thing was found on the floor near the scene of the crime. A red button with a golden rim. Certainly not cheap. Certainly not random."
He turned, slow and theatrical, toward the manager.
"At first glance, one might assume it belongs to our dear Mr. Fletcher. After all, he knows the building, the vents, the secrets."
He tilted his head, studying the man's shaking black suit.
"But there is… one tiny problem."
He flicked the button into the air, caught it gracefully, and smiled.
"Mr. Fletcher wears a black suit with gold buttons. No red."
Phantom's smile sharpened.
"And let's be honest… red buttons on a black suit? That would be a crime in itself."
A nervous laugh rippled through the hall.
Rowden tried very hard not to smile.
"So, if not the manager…" Phantom continued, pacing slowly, "who else could it be? Perhaps our valiant officers?"
The two guards stiffened.
Phantom turned to them with a thoughtful expression.
"After all, you two were at the entrance. Maybe this button is part of your uniform?"
One of the guards raised his hand like a child in class.
"Um… sir Phantom?" he said shyly.
"Our buttons are white."
He pointed at his uniform proudly.
Phantom's face lit up.
"Exactly!" he said warmly. "Very good. I'm so proud of you."
The guard beamed, chest puffing out.
Rowden stared at Phantom, then at the guard, then back.
How does he do that…?
Phantom spun back to face the line of suspects.
"So! That leaves us with two possible owners of this lovely little button."
He raised two fingers.
"Mrs. Crumpleberg… and Mr. Carver."
Hazel blinked.
"Me…?"
Phantom nodded politely.
"You, my dear Mrs. Crumpleberg, do not wear buttons on your uniform. I know this from… very close observation."
He shuddered slightly at the memory of her crushing hug.
"So the button cannot be yours."
He turned slowly to the painter.
"Which leaves… our artist."
All eyes fell on Mr. Carver.
He instinctively grabbed at his coat.
Phantom took a step closer.
"Red buttons," he said calmly, looking at the coat front.
"Golden rim. And… oh dear."
He pointed.
"Someone is missing one right in the middle."
Carver's hand flew to the empty space on his chest.
His face went pale.
Rowden's eyes narrowed like a blade.
"Why," he asked quietly, "would you drop a button at the scene of your own robbery?"
Carver swallowed.
"W–why would I steal my own painting?" he snapped back, desperation surfacing. "That doesn't make any sense!"
"Oh, I agree," Phantom said softly.
"That would make no sense at all… if you were really Mr. Carver."
Silence slammed over the hall.
Rowden's head snapped toward Phantom.
"…What?"
Phantom's smile faded into something colder, sharper.
"You're not Mr. Carver," he said.
"Your name is John Black. Identity thief. And this," he lifted the button between two fingers, "is yours."
The man's eyes widened.
"Th–that's ridiculous," he stammered. "You have no proof—"
Phantom tilted his head.
"Actually," he said lightly, "I do."
He turned to Rowden.
"Inspector, while you were busy examining statues and vents—very impressive, by the way—I was doing my own little investigation."
Rowden's jaw clenched. "Phantom…"
"This afternoon," Phantom continued, unbothered, "I found the real Mr. Carver tied to a chair in a storage room."
The hall erupted into gasps and murmurs.
Rowden's eyes went wide.
"YOU FOUND WHAT—WHEN?!"
Phantom blinked innocently.
"Earlier today."
"Why are you telling me this only now?!"
Phantom smiled, unapologetic.
"I wanted to build suspense."
Rowden just stared at him, somewhere between strangling and applauding him.
The man posing as Carver—John—took a step back, eyes darting to the side. His breath quickened.
"I—I don't have to listen to this," he snapped. "You have no—"
He turned to run.
He didn't get far.
A blur of emotion and muscle exploded from the side.
"YOU WON'T ESCAPE WITH MY HEART!!"
Mrs. Hazel Crumpleberg launched herself at John like a human freight train. They slammed to the floor with a heavy thud that echoed through the hall.
John wheezed, pinned under her.
"I—can't—breathe—"
"GOOD!" she shouted, wrestling his arms behind his back. "THAT'S WHAT YOU GET FOR HURTING MY BELOVED PAINTING!"
Phantom watched, eyes wide.
"Oh…" he whispered. "I am so glad that's not me this time."
Rowden snapped into action.
"Cuff him!" he barked.
The guards rushed over, stumbling and fumbling but eventually managing to drag John out from under Hazel and snap the cuffs over his wrists.
Rowden stepped closer, voice low and firm.
"John Black, you are under arrest for identity theft, assault, and the theft of museum property."
John glared up at Phantom.
"You… freak…"
Phantom smiled sweetly and wiggled the button in front of his face.
"Consider this," he said, "a wardrobe malfunction with consequences."
The guards dragged John away.
---
Later that afternoon, the stolen painting had been safely returned to its rightful place.
The hall felt lighter. Warmer.
The real Mr. Carver, still shaken but free, thanked Rowden with a trembling handshake.
Mrs. Crumpleberg dabbed her eyes proudly, mumbling about how "true art always survives evil."
The museum manager nearly bowed himself in half expressing gratitude.
"Inspector Elias," he said, voice shaking with relief, "we owe you everything. You and your… remarkable partner."
Rowden glanced sideways.
Phantom stood a little away from the group, hands tucked into his coat pockets, gaze drifting lazily across the now-safe painting.
Hazel approached him again, slower this time.
"Mr. Phantom…" she sniffled. "I just wanted to say… thank you. Truly."
Before he could react, she hugged him again—but this time, gently. A soft, careful hug.
Phantom stiffened like a board… then slowly relaxed.
"A-ah… yes, well," he said awkwardly. "You're… very welcome. Please don't crush me."
She laughed through her tears and let him go.
Rowden walked over, hands in his coat pockets, expression softer than usual.
"If it weren't for you," he said quietly, "we never would've uncovered John Black's identity. I might've really arrested Fletcher."
Phantom raised an eyebrow.
"You're admitting you needed me?"
Rowden gave him a long look.
"I'm admitting," he said slowly, "that it's… useful… having a partner who knows how criminals think."
He paused, then added:
"But don't get too comfortable. I still have my eyes on you."
Rowden placed a firm hand on Phantom's shoulder. Not as a threat. Not exactly as a friend. Something in between.
Phantom looked at the hand.
Then at Rowden.
A small, genuine smile touched his lips.
"Well then," he said, voice warm, "I suppose we make a delightful pair of opposites."
He slipped a hand into his coat pocket, rummaged for a second—
And pulled out a single, brightly wrapped candy.
He pressed it into Rowden's palm.
Rowden blinked.
"…What is this?"
"A reward," Phantom said simply. "For good behavior."
Rowden stared at the candy like it was some rare artifact.
By the time he looked up, Phantom was already walking toward the exit, coat swaying behind him.
"See you tomorrow, friend!" Phantom called over his shoulder, raising a hand in a lazy wave.
Rowden stood there in the museum hall, the noise of grateful staff and distant footsteps fading around him.
He looked down at the candy again.
"…Friend," he repeated under his breath, almost confused by the word.
Then—despite himself—he smiled.
Just a little.
And that was how their first real case together ended.
Not with applause.
Not with fireworks.
But with a stolen painting returned, a criminal unmasked…
And a single candy sitting in the inspector's hand.