The potted plant beside Samuel hadn't been watered in weeks. A single brittle leaf broke loose as he shifted in his seat, brushing the pot with his elbow. It landed silently on the floor. He flicked it into the nearby trash can without aiming. Fthp.
The precinct hummed with a kind of organized monotony — phones trilled, chairs scraped, radios buzzed with clipped dispatches. A printer somewhere kept spitting out forgotten pages. None of it moved with urgency, but everything moved.
Samuel sat near the front, tucked beside a dusty window and a bulletin board plastered with half-ripped notices and faded reward flyers. His homework was done — hours ago. He'd written, rechecked, even triple-checked it. Every bit of motivation he had for writing today was drained, like someone had flipped a switch the moment he finished. Now, he was just sitting, letting the slow rhythm of the precinct drift past.
It wasn't boredom exactly. More like restless stillness.
Then movement caught his eye.
From the far side of the bullpen, he watched Bradford walk over to Lucy Chen, a cardboard box balanced on his good arm. The side was scrawled with Sharpie: OPEN — NO LEADS.
"Here boot," Bradford said, dropping it with a thud on her desk. "Welcome to the fun part of your training."
Chen's mouth twitched — not a smile. More like someone holding in a groan.
"Bradford gave a nonchalant glance. "Welcome to detective work, Boot. Dig through the junk until it looks like treasure — or at least until the captain thinks it is.""
Chen gave a tight nod, and Samuel let it go — for now. What caught his interest wasn't her reaction, but the box. A cold case file with no leads, no suspects, no answers... that wasn't a dead end. That was potential. A box like that didn't scream boring.
It whispered weird. And weird was always worth a look.
He stood and wandered over, pretending to stretch, but really eyeing the box.
Yellowing folders. Paperclips clinging by habit. Photocopies with coffee stains. Everything about it looked old, forgotten — maybe even a little haunted. Which made it kind of... cool.
"What is this?" he asked.
Chen glanced at him, still clearly annoyed. "Cold cases. Stuff that never went anywhere."
He peered in deeper, fingers already twitching toward the top file. "Any rules against looking?"
"Not really," she said slowly. "But... why?"
Samuel shrugged. "Better than staring at that bulletin board another hour."
Chen sighed and stepped back, arms folded. "Go ahead. Just don't expect any happy endings."
Samuel crouched beside the box. He flipped open the first folder. Then another. A man who walked into a pawn shop and never came out. A woman who swore her fridge rearranged itself when she wasn't home. A cat that kept showing up in surveillance footage two states away — same pattern, same eyes.
He kept going.
"I get why these went cold," he muttered.
Chen, now leaning against the desk, gave a half-smile. "They're not all garbage. Just most of them."
Another folder. A small one.
Samuel opened it, and paused.
Auction. Art gallery. A buyer claiming the painting he received wasn't the one he bid on. No evidence of a switch. No theft reported. The appraiser resigned weeks later. The gallery folded soon after. No charges filed.
"Huh," Samuel said, frowning.
Chen looked over. "Weird one?"
He held up the folder. "This one's different."
Chen stepped closer, curiosity beginning to edge out her earlier annoyance. She took the folder from Samuel and scanned the summary.
"A buyer says the painting he got wasn't the one he saw during the auction?" she asked.
Samuel nodded. "No formal complaint. Just claimed something felt off. No footage, no chain of custody break, no theft. Appraiser resigned a week later. Gallery shut down a month after."
Chen frowned. "That's... messy. But still, no actual proof."
"I know," Samuel said. "But something about it just feels wrong."
He crouched again, rifling through the box until he found what he was looking for — a slick, full-color auction catalog from the same gallery. Carefully, he flipped through the pages until he found the painting in question. He placed the open catalog on the desk.
"This is their official image — the one used during bidding."
Chen walked over to the terminal, fingers tapping keys with mechanical rhythm. A few windows flicked by before she pulled up a scan and turned the screen toward him.
"This is the image the buyer submitted later," she said. "He claimed it didn't match what he paid for."
Samuel stepped closer, eyes narrowing as he took in the digital copy.
At first glance, it was a match — same colors, same composition, same soft brushwork curling through the background. He leaned in slowly, comparing it to the official catalog photo she'd pulled up beside it.
They were twins. But something was… off.
He didn't rush it. He studied.
His gaze moved deliberately across the canvas. First the background textures, then the way the light bled along the edges. The border strokes. The depth of the layering. Every detail seemed accounted for. There were no mistakes — and that's what bothered him.
There was nothing wrong.
But it didn't feel right.
He rocked back slightly, tilting his head. "I know what the buyer meant," he murmured. "They look the same, but... one just feels wrong. I can't explain it, but it's there."
Chen glanced at the screen again, brow raised. "They're identical, Samuel."
"Maybe," he said, quieter now. "But not really. They're too close — like someone tried to get it exact."
She studied his expression for a beat. "You think it's a forgery?"
"Could be. The technique's perfect. But the feeling? Off." He reached for the printout and the catalog, holding them beneath the desk lamp. Tilting, angling, letting the glare fade.
Then he saw it.
"Wait," he said, voice low.
He shifted the page again and tapped the lower right corner of the buyer's version.
"There."
Chen leaned over, squinting. For a moment, nothing — then she saw it. Barely more than a flick of paint tucked beneath a stroke of shadow. Easy to miss. But unmistakably intentional.
"That's... not in the catalog version," she said.
Samuel nodded. "Nope. But it's right there in this one. Different brush pressure. Tighter hand. It's not part of the original style."
"A signature," Chen said slowly. "But not the artist's."
"Exactly." He looked back at her. "Whoever made this couldn't resist leaving a mark."
Chen stared at the screen, then back at him. There was a long pause before she spoke again.
"You picked all that up just by looking?"
Samuel shrugged. "I was bored. Now I'm not."
A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "You know... that was good work."
He blinked, a little thrown. "Didn't think I'd get a compliment today."
"Don't get used to it," she said, already walking back to her desk. "But yeah — you've got an eye."
The buzz of the archive's old computer hummed in the background as Chen logged a few notes. Samuel remained leaned over the two photos, still tracing the tiny curve of paint near the corner — that mark that didn't belong.
He didn't hear the door open.
But Chen did. Her shoulders straightened a little.
Captain Andersen stepped into the room, silent and watchful. Her eyes scanned the scene — the desk, the files, the open monitor — before landing on Samuel.
"Why is he in here?"
No anger. Just calm, precise authority.
Chen didn't flinch. "He was helping me go through cold case files. I figured it was fine. He's not touching evidence — just looking at old records."
Andersen's gaze narrowed slightly. "And what exactly are you working on?"
Chen held up the folder. "Gallery complaint from 2007. A buyer said the painting he received wasn't the one he bid on. No evidence, no charges. Got shelved."
She gestured to the images laid out. "We compared the original catalog to a photo the buyer submitted later. There's a detail in the sold version — a small signature — that isn't in the original. He noticed it."
Andersen stepped forward, eyes narrowing as she looked at the file in Chen's hands. "You found that forgery?" she asked, her voice neutral but expectant.
Chen hesitated, then gave a small shake of her head. "Not exactly."
Andersen's brow lifted. "No?"
"I pulled the case. Looked at the scans. But…" She glanced toward Samuel. "He's the one who noticed something was off."
Andersen turned, studying him now with real focus.
"You spotted the forgery?"
Samuel shifted slightly, eyes still on the screen. "I just said they didn't feel the same," he replied. "She's the one who actually found the mark."
Andersen looked back at the images, then to Chen, then Samuel again. "That's not nothing," she said. "A lot of people would've missed it completely."
He shrugged. "Wasn't trying to find anything. It just… caught me weird."
What he didn't add — what stayed behind his quiet tone — was that it hadn't been a flash of brilliance. Just a memory. A quote from somewhere: Even the best can't help themselves. Some leave fingerprints. The real ones leave a signature.
Thanks, Sam Winchester, he thought dryly. Nice to have a brain that connects the dots before I do.
It wasn't genius.Just recognition.And a little help from the wheel.
Andersen nodded slowly, her voice softening. "Michael said you notice things most people don't. I wasn't sure I believed him."
Samuel looked up, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Neither was I."
She didn't smile, but the edge in her expression eased.
"You planning to stay bored around here more often?"
"Guess that depends," Samuel said. "What else have you got stashed in cold storage?"
She let that sit for a beat. Then nodded to Chen. "Log it. Flag it for art crimes. Note it as circumstantial, visual evidence."
Chen nodded and turned back to the computer.
Andersen turned to leave, then paused at the door. She glanced back — just for a moment.
"You didn't waste time today."
Then she was gone.
Chen leaned back in her chair, letting out a low breath.
"She complimented you," she muttered. "I've been here two weeks, and she hasn't said anything like that to me."
Samuel gave a small, dry smile. "Guess I'm just built different."
"Or maybe she just likes cocky kids with better instincts than their training officers."
He stretched and gave a casual shrug. "I'll take either."
The lights in the archive flickered slightly as they shut down the terminal. Chen tapped the screen off and tucked the folder under her arm.
Samuel followed her out into the bullpen, a step behind, his head still half in the case they'd just flagged. The station had shifted into that late-shift lull — phones still ringing, but quieter now. Everyone moved a little slower.
Chen nudged him lightly with her elbow. "Not bad for your first day as an unpaid intern."
Samuel kept his tone dry. "Cool. So when do I get a badge?"
Chen didn't miss a beat. "Right after I get a raise."
They turned the corner just as the front doors swung open.
West walked in first, followed by Lopez and Nolan. All three were in end-of-shift mode — jackets unzipped, sleeves rolled, posture slouched in that tired-but-still-standing way. Nolan was talking with one hand, like he was mid-story.
"…and then the guy says, 'I only ran because I forgot my shoes.' Like that explains anything."
Lopez groaned. "Why do they always confess after they're cuffed?"
West dropped his keys onto the nearest desk. "Could've been worse. That lady with the stroller tried to lecture me about sidewalk law."
Nolan nodded. "And the highlight of my day was stopping a guy from stealing chewing gum by talking him into just… not."
"Modern policing," Lopez said dryly.
"Heroic," Samuel muttered under his breath.
West caught sight of him. "Hey, the kid lives. What'd you do today — alphabetize the old case files?"
Chen, still logging into the nearest workstation, answered for him. "Actually? He found a forged painting in a cold case. From 2007."
Lopez blinked. "Wait, seriously?"
Nolan raised an eyebrow. "Like... actual forgery?"
Chen nodded. "Confirmed signature mismatch. We flagged it. Captain Andersen signed off."
The rookies shared a look — somewhere between amused and impressed.
West gave Samuel a once-over. "Okay. That's not nothing."
Samuel shrugged, like it was no big deal. "Beats staring at a wall all day."
Just then, the door opened again.
Michael stepped inside, tugging off his patrol gloves. He froze for half a beat when he saw the small group still clustered in the bullpen.
He looked at Chen. Then at Samuel. Then at the monitor behind them.
"...Did he break something?"
Chen shook her head. "Not unless solving cold cases counts."
Michael's eyes narrowed slightly as he turned back to Samuel. "You're not trying to get recruited, are you?"
Samuel smirked. "Not trying. Just hanging out."
Michael rubbed a hand down his face and muttered, "Nothing is ever simple with you, is it?"
"Maybe don't leave cool boxes out next time," Samuel said, feigning innocence.
Michael exhaled — but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
The rookies started peeling off toward the lockers, their laughter trailing behind. West called over his shoulder:
"Hey, if you solve a bank robbery next, we're buying you lunch."
Samuel raised a hand in mock salute. "No promises."
Chen leaned in as she passed on her way to her desk. "She complimented you," she muttered. "I've been here two weeks, and she hasn't said anything like that to me."
Samuel gave a small, dry smile. "Guess I'm just built different."
"Or maybe she just likes cocky kids with better instincts than their training officers."
He shrugged. "I'll take either."
The bullpen slowly emptied.
Chen settled at her desk, already typing out the report with quiet focus. Samuel lingered nearby, one hand resting on the cold case folder.
Michael walked over, still in uniform, still watching him like he wasn't quite sure what reality he'd just stepped into.
He nodded toward the desk. "Did you really find that signature?"
Samuel looked at the image one last time. "Yeah. I was finished with my school stuff, and then I saw Lucy get handed this massive box of weird old files. I don't know — it just seemed… interesting."
Michael raised an eyebrow. "You think a box full of dead-end cases is interesting?"
Samuel shrugged. "Looked better than the window."
Michael let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "Unbelievable. I leave you alone for one shift, and you accidentally flag a forgery that could reopen a federal case."
Samuel just gave him a look. "I was bored."
Michael stared at him, then gave a half-laugh, half-groan. "You know, when I told Andersen you were sharp, I didn't mean that sharp."
"She didn't seem mad."
"No," Michael said, pulling off his badge and tossing it onto the desk, "she seemed impressed. Which is worse. Now she's going to expect you to keep doing it."
Samuel grinned. "Guess I'll have to stay bored."
Michael tapped the desk with his knuckles. "Dinner's on me tonight."
Samuel blinked. "You're cooking?"
Michael gave him a look. "I said dinner's on me. I didn't say anything about me cooking it."
Samuel chuckled softly, then turned back to Chen. She was focused, typing fast, the glow of the screen reflecting in her glasses.
He closed the folder, set it gently on her desk, and headed for the hallway.
As he passed the empty desks and quiet corners of the precinct, something settled in his chest — not pride, not confidence.
Just a simple, unfamiliar thought:
That felt right.
Manhattan, New York
The office was quiet — the kind of quiet that only happened after hours. Just the low hum of monitors and the occasional distant ding of the elevator. Most agents had gone home. Peter Burke hadn't moved in over an hour.
He sat at his desk, back straight, eyes fixed on the glowing image on his screen.
It was a cold case out of the L.A. office — an old gallery dispute from 2007. No theft. No charges. Just a whisper of suspicion that had gone nowhere. Until now.
Someone had reopened the file. Someone had looked closer.
The image on Peter's screen showed only the corner of a painting — unremarkable at first glance. But tucked into the lower right was a curl of brushwork. Subtle. Clean. Too deliberate to be background noise. Too elegant to be accidental.
Peter leaned in.
He didn't need to zoom in. He didn't need a second look.
He knew it.
It wasn't a signature in ink. It wasn't a name etched in the frame. But it was a signature all the same.
Neal Caffrey.
That quiet flourish had shown up in at least a dozen unsolved cases — always just enough to spark a theory, never enough to stick. Rumors. Ghosts. Whispers behind closed doors. But now…
Peter exhaled slowly through his nose and sat back, jaw tightening.
They'd caught Neal on lesser charges — possession, obstruction, a stolen bond here and there. Just enough for five years. A slap on the wrist for a man who'd made an art form out of deception. Everyone in the Bureau knew he was one of the best forgers in the world.
But no one had ever proven it.
Until now.
Peter picked up the phone, already dialing.
"Jones," he said the moment it picked up. "I need everything we have on the L.A. gallery case — the one flagged for forgery. Original file, current agents, whoever spotted the detail. All of it."
A pause.
"No. Not maybe. It's him." His voice was calm, but there was steel in it now. "For the first time, we can actually prove it."
He ended the call.
The painting still stared at him from the screen. That curve of paint — so deliberate, so smug — practically winking at him through the pixels.
Neal Caffrey was sitting in prison for petty crimes.
But now, finally, Peter had what he'd never had before.
Proof.