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Summary
Suguru pauses before knocking, his raised fist drops back to his side. He looks at Satoru, gives him a very obvious once-over.
“Take the jacket off,” he says.
Satoru looks at himself, at the sunny yellow letters on his chest that scream their purpose “How’s anyone going to know I’m FBI, dude.”
Suguru raises his eyebrows. Surely he cannot be this dense. “They’ll know.” He turns back toward the door, pauses again, then turns back to Satoru. “And let me do the talking.”
“But I memorized the case details and I’ve got questions-”
“You don’t know these people,” Suguru says. He doesn’t know them either, not personally–they understand each other in a way Satoru does not. Cannot. “You have no idea what they’ve been through.”
Satoru opens his mouth and closes it.
Suguru knocks.
Satoru Gojo has a pathological need to be right. He tells himself he’ll have this case solved in two weeks, and then he’ll wash his hands of this tiny little town.
But girls keep going missing; eyes are watching his every move; and this new partner of his, Suguru, has no idea how to breathe.