Chapter Text
He was nervous. Very nervous, in fact. It was hard to remember a time when he’d been more anxious than he was now, standing in front of the door to the Armed Detective Agency. The old brick building loomed before him, the inscription “Armed Detective Agency” in gold lettering above the door catching the faint light of the setting sun.
For the eighth time in the last two hours, Kunikida Doppo flipped open his notebook, skimming through the notes he had prepared for the interview. He glanced at his wristwatch: 9:29:52. Eight seconds remained before his appointment. With a quick, almost reflexive motion, he adjusted the collar of his neatly pressed suit and examined his appearance one last time, ensuring everything was perfect. At precisely 9:30:00, he lifted his hand and knocked at the door.
“Come in,” a voice called from inside—loud, slightly bored, and with an air of indifference.
Kunikida took a deep breath and opened the door, stepping into the office. The room was exactly what he expected—neither too small nor too large, with a few well-organized desks scattered about. Behind one of these desks sat a young man, his posture slouched as if he were on the verge of dozing off. Dark hair framed his face, and his green eyes—half-lidded—seemed barely awake. He was surrounded by a chaotic assortment of snack bags and papers.
“The President’s gonna be here any minute,” the young man said nonchalantly, popping a handful of chips into his mouth.
But there was another young man several desks away in his lonesome. A pair of blue eyes landed on the bespectacled man, flickering over his form before the other man turned away. Though, not before adjusting the circular orange shades over his eyes by the arms. The other man’s focus seemed to be completely hyper-fixated, he was hunched over his work, adjusting a set of thin, finely tuned wires within a mechanism, his brow furrowed in concentration. He had short, dark hair that fell in soft, unruly waves around his face, and under the fluorescent lights, Kunikida could make out freckles dotting his otherwise fair skin. His clothing was practical, almost minimalistic—just a white long-sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a tan vest, and black pants tucked into well-worn boots. His hands moved with careful precision, and his right hand—an elegantly designed metal prosthetic—flashed faintly under the light as he tightened a screw with exacting control.
At his side rested twin sabres, their polished hilts catching the light, hinting at both his experience and his readiness to act if needed. Kunikida, ever watchful, felt a flicker of curiosity tempered with a hint of apprehension.
Kunikida blinked, surprised by the blatant lack of professionalism. He had expected someone at least somewhat orderly—this was the Armed Detective Agency, after all. But before he could comment on the mess, a stern voice interrupted him.
“Ranpo, at least sit up when someone enters. And try not to drop all of your snacks on the floor this time.”
Kunikida turned to see the source of the reprimand: Fukuzawa Yukichi, the head of the agency. With his sharp features and straight posture, he commanded an air of authority. His piercing gaze immediately locked onto Kunikida, sizing him up with quiet intensity.
“You must be Kunikida. Please follow me,” Fukuzawa said, his tone brisk but not unkind.
Kunikida gave a quick nod, swallowing his nerves as he followed the older man into an adjoining office. This room was more refined, with tastefully arranged furniture and a large wooden desk behind which Fukuzawa sat. Kunikida took the chair opposite him, sitting up straight as he awaited the start of the conversation.
Just as Fukuzawa was about to speak, his phone buzzed, the sound sharp against the silence. He glanced at it for a moment, his expression unreadable, before returning his attention to Kunikida.
“You’re on time,” Fukuzawa noted, his tone dry but not without a hint of approval.
“Of course,” Kunikida replied, his back straightening further. “Punctuality is very important to me.”
As if to punctuate the moment, there was another soft knock on the door. A young woman entered, her smile warm as she carried a tray with two cups of tea. She placed them carefully on the desk before leaving as quietly as she had entered.
Fukuzawa sipped his tea before looking back at Kunikida. “Well then, Kunikida. Why do you want to work at the Armed Detective Agency?”
Kunikida had anticipated this question. His answer was already prepared, and he delivered it with the kind of smooth confidence that came from having thought through his response thoroughly.
“I believe in my ideals,” he began, his voice steady, “and I want to do everything I can to make them a reality. One of my core beliefs is in the concept of justice—a just world where people can live in peace, and those who commit crimes are held accountable for their actions. I want to contribute to that world by working with your agency.”
Fukuzawa nodded thoughtfully, his expression neutral but attentive. He had heard similar answers before, but this one seemed different, more genuine. Still, the next question was inevitable.
“Why the Armed Detective Agency?” Fukuzawa asked, leaning slightly forward.
Kunikida hesitated for a moment, knowing this next part would be more difficult to explain. He cleared his throat before responding.
“Because, quite frankly, I don’t have much faith in the authority of most institutions,” Kunikida admitted, his voice unwavering.
“Often, higher-ups take advantage of their positions, and I don’t believe in blindly following authority just because someone holds power. I want to serve justice, not climb a career ladder. I can only respect authority when it is earned.”
He paused, then added quickly, “I would respect the head of this agency.”
Fukuzawa’s expression didn’t change, but the intensity in his gaze deepened, as if the words triggered something in him. His next question came without warning.
“You want justice. Would you kill for it?”
For a moment, Kunikida froze. He had expected many questions—this one, however, caught him off guard.
“No,” he said, his voice tense, almost an immediate, instinctual response. “I would never!”
The words burst from him in a way that seemed too harsh even to his own ears. He immediately regretted the force of his answer and quickly tried to clarify.
“It’s not always easy to live according to ideals,” he said, more measured this time. “Sometimes, you have to sacrifice one ideal for the sake of another. For example, you might need to lie to save a life. But to kill—no. That’s something I can never justify. There is always another way, a better solution. Always. Therefore, my answer is no. I would never kill for justice.”
Fukuzawa’s gaze lingered on him, sharp and observant. It was a moment before he spoke again, his expression unreadable.
“That’s the answer I wanted,” Fukuzawa said simply. “Though sometimes, it’s more complicated than that.”
Kunikida nodded, feeling the weight of the older man’s words but not fully understanding their meaning. As he glanced away, trying to refocus his thoughts, Fukuzawa’s mind drifted back to a time long ago—memories from a past that haunted him still.
——————
(*Nine Years Ago*)
Fukuzawa stood before a small steel door, peering through a small window in the thick metal. Inside the dimly lit cell, a young boy sat alone, his arms restrained in a straitjacket. The boy, perhaps no older than fourteen, was curled up against the corner, his face a mix of both defiance and indifference. His reddish hair fell in messy tangles, a stark contrast to the sterile surroundings.
The boy was a hitman. A first-class one, at that. Fukuzawa had arrested him earlier that day, handing him over to the authorities, but he had been powerless to prevent another murder—one that occurred right before his eyes. Now, standing in the cold silence of the underground facility, Fukuzawa had a new objective: to get information from the boy. A criminal organization, known as "V," had abducted Ranpo, and Fukuzawa was willing to do whatever it took to save him. Even if it meant betraying his own principles, just this once. One single time… He was ready to make a deal with a criminal.
But when he asked the boy about the organization’s hideouts, the response was unexpected.
*“I don’t want to talk about them,”* the boy replied, his voice devoid of emotion, as though he had lived through too much for anything to stir him.
Fukuzawa’s heart sank. The boy’s eyes—cold and devoid of youth—spoke of a life too harsh for someone his age. But then the boy spoke again, his words more chilling than anything Fukuzawa could have imagined.
*“Do you know what their goal is?”* the boy asked, his voice flat.
*“No.”* Fukuzawa answered, taken aback by the question.
*“Justice,”* the boy said, his tone almost detached. *“I can understand killing for money or because you hated someone. But they’re killing for justice. I don’t want to get involved with a group like that. After they’re done killing for their justice, they’ll just keep killing. They’ll stop caring who they’re killing.”*
Fukuzawa stood frozen, the weight of the boy’s words sinking deep into his soul. Justice—a concept so pure, so noble in theory—could easily become a weapon of destruction when twisted. The boy, despite his youth, understood this all too well. And the realization shook Fukuzawa to his core.
He had known that ideals could be manipulated, used as justifications for horrific actions. But hearing it from the lips of a child who had already experienced the consequences of such thinking left him speechless.
The young hitman’s words lingered in Fukuzawa’s mind for years to come, a reminder of the thin line between justice and vengeance, and the dangers of losing sight of what truly mattered.
——————
Fukuzawa snapped back to the present, his eyes now fixed on Kunikida. The young man’s words, so filled with conviction, had reminded him of that painful memory. Kunikida’s desire for justice was genuine—Fukuzawa could see that. But he also knew that justice, when pursued with blind idealism, could be a dangerous thing.
Kunikida glanced up at Fukuzawa, his heart racing in his chest. The president’s gaze felt like it was piercing through him, weighing his every word. The silence stretched, and Kunikida couldn't help but shift in his seat.
He met his gaze, still uncertain about the unspoken weight behind Fukuzawa’s question. The older man’s expression softened slightly.
“You’ll learn,” Fukuzawa said, his voice no longer sharp but filled with a quiet understanding. “In this world, justice isn’t always as simple as it seems.”
As Kunikida nodded, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was so much more to the agency—and to Fukuzawa himself—than he had yet realized. But for now, all he could do was move forward, determined to prove himself.
Before he could say anything else, Fukuzawa stood, prompting Kunikida to follow suit hastily. The older man was unreadable as ever, his expression was once again fixed in that sharp, calculating way.
“Kunikida,” Fukuzawa said, “you will work on probation for a week. If you do well, you’ll be officially employed by the agency.”
Kunikida blinked, not quite sure if he had heard him right. “Probation?”
“Yes. Get to know your coworkers,” Fukuzawa added, turning toward the door. “Your first case is waiting for you. There’s much to do.”
As they walked back into the main office, Kunikida was left with a whirlwind of thoughts. He had passed the interview, but what kind of agency was he joining? And more importantly, what would his new coworkers be like?
Just then, his eyes fell on the young man he had noticed earlier. The man was at his desk, now absentmindedly tapping the hilt of one of his twin sabres against the surface in an almost rhythmical pattern. The sight caught Kunikida’s attention—a quiet confidence radiated from the young man, a contrast to the chaos around him. Andrew’s posture, although relaxed, was carefully controlled, his attention focused entirely on whatever task was at hand.
Andrew looked up as Kunikida approached, his blue eyes locking with his. He gave a brief, almost imperceptible nod, acknowledging Kunikida’s presence without words. His gaze was calm, assessing, as if sizing up the new arrival in a way Kunikida had yet to fully understand.
“Andrew Lam, a pleasure to meet you,” he introduced himself, his voice a mixture of warmth and quiet reserve. “First day?”
Kunikida nodded, glancing down at his notebook. “Yes. I believe in efficiency.” His eyes drifted to Ranpo’s desk, which was still piled with snacks and papers. “And organization.”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Andrew’s lips, though he suppressed it quickly. “You’ll fit in,” he said with a small, amused tilt of his head. “Not everything here is as it seems.”
Kunikida’s curiosity piqued at the cryptic remark, but before he could press further, Andrew’s attention shifted back to his work.
There was an air of quiet experience about him, a balance of intellect and practicality. Kunikida found himself wondering what kind of person Andrew truly was—and how his own ideals might mesh with the agency’s unconventional atmosphere.
As Kunikida turned his focus back to Fukuzawa, preparing himself for what was to come, he couldn’t help but feel that the presence of everyone in the agency, though each less subtle than the last, would play a significant role in the days to come.