Chapter Text
The blare of the fizzy azure screen didn’t lie to him. His face’s outline barely visible on the scratchy blue surface, tuned to a dead end. Wet garments discarded; an orphaned sock lying across the floor tiles. A darkened stain in the wine carpet that never left no matter how relentless the scrubbing. Cans of protein powder tucked neatly under his bed; the sheets slightly damp with sweat from this summer’s night. Rusty barbells on the kitchen counter, next to the Chinese takeaway, still chilly from the fridge’s cooling. Punching bag suspended to the ceiling by a chain, worn and torn with various patches. Crisp neon lights pour in through paper blinds, falling onto his face. Bars of bright red, blue and green lining his forehead, nose, jaw.
Tonight is as good a night as any. There’s a faint buzzing in his ear.
There’s a shot of whiskey beside him. The cold liquid blurred by the glass. He swears he doesn’t smoke, affording only one vice is a tumultuous effort for someone like him. He can’t stand the smell of it. Tasteless on his tongue. They only laugh lightly in return with knowing eyes — almost hound-like, predatory. Mom calls to make sure he eats well; enough vegetables. He needs to go grocery shopping soon, but he doesn’t like the intense fluorescent lights and how it blinds him. Is there a fake God in the coffee aisle? Everyone’s a devotee there. Aside from the face of his punching bag, he’s coping well.
The telephone rings.
He lets it go on. The vibrating intense, billowing into the cold night. Slowly, he rose from the leather seat, leaving a ghastly trace of weight over the cushion. He clicks it open, holds it to his ear.
“Akihiko Sanada here.” Idly, he scratches at his cheek, a plastic bandage plastered over it. The wired phone crackles – it always does.
“...Sanada…you…come… office…” The line was particularly worse, the crackling breaking up the voice from the other end. Still, he could infer that it was the voice belonging to his superior’s. This late at night, it was not unusual to be beckoned into work — after all, the darkness was the perfect operating room for evil.
“Yeah, yeah, I got it. I’ll be there in five.” Akihiko shuts the phone down, sounding out a sigh. His eyes turn to the cold Chinese. Nothing he could stomach at the point, so he reaches for his brown leather coat from off the rack, pulls it onto him. A sharp turn of his keys as he pocketed the key to his rouge Chevrolet. He made sure to slowly turn the door open, creaking into an empty hallway, faintly filled with the various thumps and inaudible noises. It smelt like ash, a lingering smoky, woody scent. To him the yelling felt like laughter if he tried hard enough to not remember. He clicks the door shut and walks down the stairs. Carpeted, but tearing away slowly. Monochrome advertisements with strings of numbers plastered to the handrails, the walls. He’ll know who to call if he ever decides to rent a property. Not like he could, but he’ll keep it in mind still.
The outside of his apartment block is strange at this hour. The street lights flickering, falling down a yellow stream on his face. The fickle noisy sounds of a busy road playing like a record everytime he leaves his house. It’s never quiet here.
The chill tonight was unlike any; not that the weather was in absence of hotness. He lacked warmth to combat it.
The police station’s just as he remembers. From yesterday, that is. Everything’s in a disarray, there’s papers scattered around open desks, the cubicles dotted with the officers’ personal items; a family picture, yellowed by age, creases at the side where their fingers gripped it too hard. Maybe a postcard from the Bahamas or Bali. Pens that don’t work anymore. A staple that constantly has to be refilled. It’s a den for the people alike — Akihiko likes to think he’s different from the herd. Where his desk is, there’s a photo of him and his parents. Medals made in his name, a handcrafted medallion, shoved away in the drawers, sliding forward with thuds every time he looks for a spare pen. And then he’ll stare — he always does, for a fleeting second, but a lot can happen in a second — then his eyes gravitate away.
He looks through the blinds — there’s no snowfall, but he can make out a hint of rain. Just the darkness. The room’s dark because Shirogane can’t handle the bright lights, but he can see the ever so visible outline of his young face. He wonders if Shirogane visits his family, for a moment, then remembers — his grandfather passed two months ago. That was the first time he’d ever seen Shirogane break out a tear. It was so alien to him that he didn’t know what to do. Now he feels like kicking himself for not remembering.
“Sanada.” A voice pips out. He’s broken from his train of daydreams, slowly blinking at the person sitting in front of him, clicking their pen restlessly.
“Yeah. Sorry, I got distracted.”
“You’ll be assigned to this case with a junior detective. Someone to show him around the ropes, and I trust you to not mess it up.”
There’s a flash of a memory. His name, engraved in gold. Dying star exploding in a million pieces. He isn’t quite seasoned yet, but he’s no newbie anymore.
“That’s fine with me. Where is he?”
“He goes by Ken. He’s already at the site of the incident, so make sure you get there after this. The back alley in front of Que Sera Sera. It’s active around this time so break up any fights you see.”
Shirogane pushes forth a document with his fingers. Akihiko casts a quick look at it. It’s the file on Ken. Ken Amada. That was his name, typewritten in black. Red ink was a bad omen. An exemplary officer at the academy. Scored perfect grades and passed the physical check with flying colours. He made quite a name for himself, he thinks. He drifts over the height and weight, moving onto the instructor’s comments. Well-mannered, polite and reliable.
He turns up from the paper. “Why are you showing this to me?”
“It might be helpful to know your partner first.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to know him through words on a piece of paper; it’ll be better to know a man in a fistfight,” he jokes, but the humour’s unrequited. The silence comes from a place of lack of understanding rather than distaste. “I’ll talk to him. Relax. We’re going to be working on this together, after all.”
A brief moment of respite from his awkward jokes; Akihiko interjects.
“You gave him my file as well?”
“No. Like we agreed.”
He returns a weak smile in appreciation.
Shirogane relaxes. His shoulders look less tense - they cascade down like droplets on a window. He wonders if it’s because he’s still thinking about his grandfather and it’s been two months. It’s been twenty-years, and still he remembers the taste of flames. Taste of defeat, weakness. It’s the grime in his mouth he can’t wash out.
Hoping to calm the tension, Akihiko sifts through the documents again quietly, Shirogane’s fingers pressed against his temple firmly, suppressing a headache. Everything he says falls flat, and he’s unsure if Shirogane’s about to yell at him or break down in tears. He always looked like that — fine china, patterned dragons in rare blue.
“This case is particularly serious. Make sure you’re in the right mind, Sanada.”
“Don’t worry, I always am.”
He should really call Mom back.
There’s always bugs where the shadows fall. Unlike the light-seeking moth, Akihiko considers himself more a cricket. Chirping its song amidst the night, seeking for those like it. The song can’t penetrate the sounds of the storm, but it still sings.
Thunder unfurls in a fit of rage. Somehow, it’s darker, colder and wetter already. The rain pit-patters on the windshield of his car, the wipers swerving back and forth, pushing away the droplets fruitlessly, as more appear and litter across his windows.
Exiting his Chevy, he wades past drunken people stumbling over their steps, laughter passing away. He doesn’t make trouble. The rain wetting the end strands of his hair, seeping into his best coat. His only coat. Teenagers, barely touching nineteen, dressed in heavy tattoos. Graffiti and soaked advertisements plastered against the wall. He makes out one of the neon blue sprayed text — ‘4lyfe’, the words slowly melting away. Bright yellow police tape, lined across the narrow corridor — separating the boundaries of life and death. He pulls it up and ducks under, a sick game of limbo he has to play everytime, to live in the world of the dead. Brazen red lights of a nearby cop car flashing.
“What’s the situation?” He asks a nearby officer, busy scribbling away at his notepad. “You should see it for yourself, sir.” his voice falls frail, weak. His face is wet, red, gently trembling like the storm. First case? He wants to ask.
Akihiko doesn’t press further. He steps towards the body, making sure his boots don’t touch anything important labelled with a little white plastic standee. The rain washed away most of the footprints that might have been imprinted on the mud. What’s left are the hurried movements of the officers. Before the body, he kneels down, pulling out disposable gloves. The blare of the police lights blind him, so he doesn’t turn his head up.
A skinny, lanky looking man with pale, long locks. His skin barely stretches over bones, dotted with tattoos. The incident was recent. The rain had withered away most footsteps, leaving a trail of uneven mud and dirt. Still, someone must have heard something. But he knows it too; that they hear nothing, say nothing.
Victim seemingly around early thirties, late twenties. Multiple gunshot wounds to the chest, twice in the right scapula. The repeated shots dotted his entire torso, touching the various tattoos. The blood loss was fatal, if the multiple bullets didn’t kill him. Poor man. His blood pooled around him, mixing with the gravel.
Akihiko gravitates a hand forward into the victim’s jean pockets, shuffling around. Nothing.
“Sir, they found this in his pockets.” A junior interrupts, showing him a biohazard bag containing a needle. Watching him fumble around must’ve been embarrassing. He needed a desperate escape. He looks around. A heavy green dumpster bin behind the body. Beneath the lid is a little wetness, with a little gravel on it. Same gravel as the ground, grainy white. Neon lights again above a rusty metal door, a short staircase leading to it. Another building, stacked with boxes and construction materials beside; the shutters placed down. It hasn’t been inhabited for a while.
“Did you search it?” He calls out, pointing to the bin.
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Well, no one wants to do it, sir.”
He stands up, taking a few moments away from the body. “Where’s the kid? Ken.”
“He’s in the bar, questioning the people there.”
“What about the body?”
“What about the body—? He went through it already.”
He takes no hesitation to enter the sombre bar, finding some respite from the rainfall temporarily. Shuffling his coat, Sanada brushes off the water droplets as it rejoins the ground. The door chimes open with a bell. The in the bar were just as dim at the outside, an amber glow of the lamps served as their only point of illumination. It was a small bar, reserved for mostly regulars, it contained a long counter filled with seats, the primary attraction; the bartender wiping down a glass mug with cloth. There were booths beside the counter, crimson, shiny, a little rusted on the sides like his Chevy. It was empty, save for the bartender and a young man sitting on one of the barstools in front of the former.
“Welcome.” The bartender said, his tone barely wavering above absolute nonchalance. Vibrant blue hair covering the right side of his face, falling down to obscure his eyes.
“I’m not here to drink.”
The bartender didn’t respond, and instead turned to the man in front of him. The young man turned to face Akihiko, twisting in the barstool. He held a cold gaze, grey irises and tufts of auburn hair, messy, wet in some strands. There was some layer of soul glistering in them. He was as the picture dictated, exactly to a tee. His eyes brightened the moment he beheld his senior.
“Ken.”
“Akihiko, sir.”
“You can just call me Aki, since we’re working on this together.” Sanada extended a hand towards the younger man.
“Aki, then.” The other smiled politely, taking in his hand with a firm handshake. There was a certain boyish charm to it. “I had the body looked at, they’ll send it to the lab for a more detailed lab report. I was speaking to this bartender just now. He said he entered late, through the back door. He was busy opening the bar, and since he heard nothing suspicious, he didn’t go out. The camera footage he’s shown me attests his alibi; he entered late.”
“Could you send us the footage?” Sanada directs the question towards the bartender, the man quietly settling down the glass onto a rack. “Yes,” he mumbled quietly in response, his gaze obscured by his bangs. He didn’t seem to notice the two of them at all — completely immersed yet inattentive.
“We’ll have the feed re-examined. Let’s move to another booth to discuss for now — and, bartender, a glass of milk, please.” He needed something to moisturise the insides of his throat; seeing the body burns it, from the flame inside his body.
Ken looked at him strangely. “O-One glass of milk for me, as well.” The two opted to move to a nearby booth, seated in opposition to each other; Sanada impatiently drumming his fingers on the wooden table.
“Were there any more witnesses at the scene?”
“No, and there’s no cameras back there — it’s an infamous site for delinquents and dealers because of its secludedness and privacy. A failed meetup would make sense, considering the syringe in his back pocket. There’s no cash and ID in his pockets.”
“I don’t doubt your hypothesis….” Akihiko leaned into the table, as if about to interject, but retracts himself.
“What about the victim? He has no ID on him. And the regulars, they don’t know who he is either. Just that he hangs around two other, I quote, ‘strange-looking’ people. The people that gave their accounts were intoxicated, so the validity of the truth of it varies, but they said it was a man and a woman, in their 20s. I tried to nudge more information out of them, but they were insistent on not knowing anything further.”
“The people around here are tight-lipped. They know not to mess around with what they hear, so they keep to themselves. We may be the police, yet,” a pause. “There are certain things beyond our jurisdiction.” A flash of a strain overcomes him, — then he perks as if there was nothing that transpired, at all. “Doesn’t mean we can’t try, eh?”
Ken’s worried expression shifts into a calmer tone. His brows knit, tense like the same look on Shirogane. It’s ill-fitting. An instinct overpowers Akihiko to comfort the boy. They did say he was the top of his academy, but like the others that came before him, the first time around is the hardest. Names were menial if the stomach couldn’t bear the mantle, closer to the heart than the mind. After that — well, it all blends together in a pile of slush, in front of the leather punch bag, hanging in a dingy gym with no one else.
The bartender sets down the two tall glasses of milk. Akihiko digs in his pocket, pulls three crumpled bills forward with two fingers. He accepts it and pulls away for privacy’s sake between the two detectives.
“It’s on me. Drink up. Milk builds your bones’ health.” He’s not a child.
Ken obliges, regardless, perhaps out of respect. They both down the glass of milk in silence. The rain doesn’t let up, and it makes its continued presence known by the noises against the door. When Ken finishes his own glass, Akihiko stands up, moving for the door.
“I need to look at something. Come, let’s go.” he spoke, which was met in response with a nod.
The two made their exit; the bartender’s cerulean eyes following.
Akihiko makes an initiative to walk over to the bin, supporting digits under the lids. The wet grains sticking to his fingertips. He tries to lift it, but the weight’s heavier of a burden than expected. “Ken, come help me with this.” gesturing towards the junior to help capsize the lid, with a deep breath and good timing; the shiny viridescent lid flings open.
The first thing his eyes see is nothing special. It’s the pungent, invasive smell that penetrates up his senses. The bin’s contents speak for its stench. The allure of the used cigarettes draws his gaze, not out of the ordinary — then the plastic bags, filled to the brim with boxes and leftovers, probably weeks old; there are needles, unknown coloured liquids painting the sides in swirls. At last, in the darker corners is where it matters — Akihiko sees a faint outline, like the sides of Shirogane’s face in the darkness — a human hand, raggedy. He frantically pushes away the transparent bags with both his hands, unveiling a larger picture; it’s a man, out cold in the darkness, alone. The man’s face was shaded by a flat cap the shade of charcoal. His first alarm is Ken’s expression, it warps — his eyes widen, mouth agape, he can tell there’s a shaking in his lips.
And his first instinct is to yell, as much as his throat allows him, as much as the child can plead; calling the officers, they scatter to him like a flock of doves. Hurriedly, they step up to the bin, pulling a flashlight over the body’s face; a cloak of light hits its face. In an organised pull, the junior officers drag the body out, exposing it to the wild, breaking rain. Its impact hitting the ground with a thud, arms and legs spread like a second corpse.
Ken flicks his pocket flashlight to his rising, cascading chest — he’s the first to say, “he’s breathing!”. He placed two fingers to his neck, waiting for a confirmation. The man, harrowed-looking and exhausted, his cheekbones hollowed with sickness—- his mask, the flat cap having fallen to the side of his right ear. His hair was unruly, unkempt in chaotic strains of brown. He was dressed in a bowtie, dishevelled, unbuttoned shirt; tight black pants that hugged his frame. The most damning of his array, the officers’ eyes locked on tight — splashes of deep vermillion blossoming like zinnias. The droplets of water cover him — heavy, and the storm doesn’t let up, no, it mourned, with a gust of cries from the sky. Damp patches of off-white splotches his shirt the same way the mines trigger – tiny explosions.
It doesn’t take more than a second for Akihiko to realise — a lot happens in a second, he reiterates to himself — then to let his heart sink into a depth deeper than the hole he dug himself. In a state of paralysis, he can only gawk. To let his purple, bruise-splotched lips part; for a word, like a relic of a memory, he spoke from his delirium—- “Shinji…”
That name, scorching brandy on his tongue.