The dimly lit interrogation room was a place where grayness reigned supreme, its very existence designed to break anyone who dared step inside—be they criminal or detective.

  Sometimes, it wasn’t a criminal. Sometimes, it was both detective and criminal—

  —But who the hell cared?

  On the left side of the iron bars sat a pale-faced boy, his eyes tightly shut, bathed in the room’s only light source—a lone hanging lamp dangling from the ceiling.

  The interrogation room had no windows, just four walls. Yet, a sudden gust of wind made the lamp sway, its rusty chains creaking.

  The boy’s mind was a chaotic mess, his senses dulled to near nonexistence. But at least he could still think. He could still wonder.

  Who am I?

  “Name.” A man entered the room, casually leaning back in the metal chair.

  He took his seat. The right side of the iron bars was his domain, as it always had been.

  Where am I?

  “Age?” The man grew increasingly impatient as he stared at the boy, who seemed almost catatonic.

  The wrinkles carved by time were deep on his face. A neatly trimmed mustache and a buzz cut might have lent him some vigor, but the relentless overtime and night shifts were clearly eroding both his spirit and professionalism.

  “Don’t make me ask twice, you little shit.”

  His voice suddenly sharpened, the words slipping out in a way that defied the internal guidelines. His superiors had once stressed the need for a new approach in this new era, to shed the old image of incompetent tax-money leeches. Naturally, the man scoffed at such notions. To him, the list of “sensitive words” was nothing more than scrap paper.

  The boy, his wrists cuffed to the chair, shifted uneasily. A wave of inexplicable anxiety crashed against his chest.

  I can still think. At least I’m alive.

  The man slammed his left hand against the table with a force so loud it pierced even the soundproof walls, reaching the ears of two people outside.

  When even such a sudden, violent noise failed to elicit a reaction, the detective slumped back into his chair, resigned, and picked up the file he’d brought with him, skimming through its contents.

  “Kid, I’ve been doing this job for over twenty years. I’ve seen hundreds of murderers—young, old, mentally ill, faking amnesia…”

  He looked up, studying the boy’s hollowed-out face. Dark circles, like stains from thick smoke, clung beneath his eyes. His small eyes looked even more sunken, dark and empty—devoid of the life experiences and stories that only middle age could bring.

  The detective shook his head. Too young. Too green.

  “Every single one of them, I got them to talk in the end. Busting flimsy lies is basically our day job. So please, don’t test our patience or professionalism.” His tone was almost sincere as he stood, abandoning the table’s protection and presenting himself fully to the boy—unarmed, unguarded.

  The overhead light cast shadows downward, obscuring nearly half his face in darkness, making his expression unreadable. But the boy finally opened his mouth, stirring excitement in everyone present. They leaned in, eager for what he might say next.

  “So this is your department’s negotiation expert? Looks plain and unremarkable, but surprisingly skilled,” remarked one of the officers outside, taking a drag from his cigarette.

  “…Thirsty.”

  Unlike a dried-up well, the boy managed to voice his need. Right now, he felt like he could drink the entire Pacific Ocean.

  Maybe the Mediterranean instead. Don’t want to be mocked for biting off more than I can chew.

  “Tch…” The detective sighed, rubbing his forehead before walking out.

  “You did great, sir. Before you came, he wouldn’t even ask for water. Just sat there staring at us for hours,” said a young officer in a crisp, clean suit, stepping forward to console him.

  The detective pulled out a cigarette, lit it with a borrowed flame, and took a deep drag.

  “I’ve been to the scene. It was disgusting. Honestly, I’m starting to doubt whether he’s even the one who did it.” He flipped through the boy’s file again. “A mainland student here on a work-study program, prepping for college. Someone like this has a bright future ahead. Probably spent his whole life studying—this might even be his first time away from home, stepping into society. People like this don’t just turn to crime. They’d see it as throwing away everything they’ve worked for.”

  “Not to mention the brutality of the crime. Most people would vomit at the sight, even if they had a deep grudge. And if they did commit a crime, it’d usually be something calculated—not leaving behind a mess of evidence like this.”

  He handed the folder to his colleague.

  “The victim’s body was found in his garage—tortured, nails and teeth ripped out, dismembered. Limbs and head severed. Sure, it could’ve been premeditated, but to me, it reeks of a crime of passion. An argument, a fight, the boy overpowering the shorter victim. Maybe something twisted inside him snapped, and he tortured the guy before killing him. Then, in a panic, he thought to hide the body by cutting it up.”

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  “Why was he there? Why kill? Even if he did kill, would he have the guts to dismember the body? Too many unknowns, and yet he won’t say a word.” The young officer frowned.

  The detective stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray. “None of this speculation helps. First, send someone to the Institute of Unnatural Death Causes to hurry up the autopsy report. Once we confirm the cause of death, we’ll regroup.” He glanced back at the boy, still sitting motionless in the interrogation room. “Aoki, get a psychologist in here too.”

  The young officer looked surprised. “You think…?”

  “Amnesia, schizophrenia, faking insanity, or actually insane.” The detective sighed. “We’ll need a professional to tell us which. I can’t tell if he’s really broken or just acting.”

  Officer Aoki quickly noted it down in his memo pad.

  Another detective slipped on his coat and shook hands with the older man. “Well, I’ll leave him to you, Takashi. If he says anything, contact us immediately.”

  “No problem. Thanks for making the trip all the way to our precinct.”

  “Hey, it’s part of the job. Honestly, I’m just the messenger—easy work compared to yours.”

  “Hey, mind giving me a hint? Why’s Public Security involved? This isn’t just a regular murder, is it?”

  Takashi’s expression darkened as he probed for information.

  “Sorry, regulations. Can’t disclose anything. But…” The detective deliberately drew out his words, like bait on a hook.

  “Don’t worry too much about this case. Section 9 will take over. Orders came straight from the top. When the time comes, we’ll transfer him out.”

  He patted Takashi’s shoulder. “Consider this a favor. It’s a mess you don’t want.”

  Takashi didn’t press further. He watched the Public Security officer leave, then leaned against the wall, feeling a mix of relief and exhaustion.

  Right now, the boy was the most infamous person in Neo-Harbor City. Flip through any channel, and within five to ten minutes, you’d see his harmless face staring back at you.

  Every station had its own take—exclusive reports, undisclosed backgrounds. If even half of it were true, journalists would be more resourceful than him, the lead detective on the case, uncovering leads faster and dissecting the killer more thoroughly.

  He wished it were true.

  But reality was less kind. The boy’s personal details and family background had been dug up and laid bare. Given how aggressively the paparazzi were swarming, it wouldn’t be long before the news reached the mainland. Yet none of this helped the investigation. Instead, it had drawn unnecessary public scrutiny.

  He slapped his cheeks, trying to wake himself up. It was futile, but he had to return to work—back to that cramped interrogation room.

  The detective returned, sitting once more across from the boy. This time, he slammed his service pistol onto the table, hoping to jolt the boy out of his stupor.

  The boy wasn’t shaking out of fear, but from cold. A thin shirt was all that shielded him from the chill. He exhaled sharply, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

  “Officer, I’m cold.” His voice was rough, deeper than it should’ve been.

  He didn’t remember what his real voice sounded like, but his aching throat told him this wasn’t it.

  “Oh, really? Then tell me your name, and I’ll get you a jacket. How’s that?”

  He just doesn’t know when to quit, does he?

  The boy clenched his jaw. Another headache struck—like hundreds of seagulls pecking at his brain, tearing off chunks and swallowing them whole.

  But even that couldn’t stop him from eyeing the detective’s suit jacket, his face betraying desperate longing. He imagined slipping into that oversized coat, wrapping himself up like a cocoon. Maybe it could fit two of him. Who knew? It’d be like a blanket.

  “Tailored, well-fitted. Definitely not off-the-rack from some department store. A luxury he could never afford. If he’d paid for it himself, he’d probably be divorced by now—his inherited apartment split with his ex-wife, his beloved daughter awarded to her in the settlement.

  “At that point, he’d lose all hope. Maybe in despair, he’d toss this damned jacket, reeking of middle-aged sweat and the stench of crime scenes, right at my feet.

  “Oh, wait. No, he wouldn’t. Because it was a gift from his father—a present for his promotion. An old gentleman from Takashi Tailors had prepared it years ago. June 2033. Back then, he was full of ambition, fresh off solving a crime of passion. That case earned him the credentials to transfer to the Metropolitan Police Department’s Criminal Investigations Division.”

  The boy tried to keep the conversation going. “Nice suit.”

  Takashi was caught off guard by the sudden compliment. “Uh… thanks.”

  “You didn’t disappoint your father. Became a good detective. That’s why he rewarded you, right?”

  The detective’s gaze sharpened as he stared at the boy through the bars.

  “You seem to know a lot about me. What, are we neighbors?”

  The boy’s body was nearly frozen stiff, but the numbness helped. The cold dulled the pain.

  “No, officer. I’ll be honest—I’ve lost my memory. I don’t remember my name or where I live.”

  “Kid, you know what happens if you keep lying, right? You think pretending to have amnesia will let you dodge the law?” Takashi’s tone was almost pitying.

  “I’m not lying!”

  The boy’s voice cracked with sudden emotion, like a firework sputtering to life. But it didn’t make him any warmer.

  “Damn it, I’m telling you to confess now so we can both move on!”

  Takashi yanked off his jacket and tossed it at the boy before storming out.

  The boy tried to reach for it, then gave up and simply draped it over his shoulders, curling into himself. The handcuffs rattled as he moved.

  For some reason, he felt like he’d done this before—huddled in the same darkness, the same dim light, using his own body to fend off loneliness.

  Only to have his shell shattered, his back pierced straight through his spine, what little sense of safety he had crumbling instantly.

  “He’s claiming amnesia?”

  Nishikawa had just returned to his office when Detective Takashi called.

  “Yeah. And weirdly, it’s like he knows me. I’m gonna start checking my neighbors and connections.”

  Nishikawa set down his pen, surprised. “Why do you say that? If he’s got amnesia, and his rental contract says he lived near Ryoukawa… Takashi, you…”

  He hesitated, unable to believe a detective like Takashi would live in Ryoukawa.

  “I live downtown, close to the precinct. But that’s not the point. Somehow, he knew my father was a tailor. Knew he gave me that suit as a gift.”

  Takashi spoke rapidly, dumping his thoughts like sand from a torn bag.

  “So either he researched me—a detective who’d eventually handle his case—or he used to be my neighbor. I don’t remember him, but it’s worth checking.”

  “Whoa, hold on. You sure? Maybe he’s just observant. Or he was fishing for info?”

  Takashi was adamant. “No way. We talked for less than five minutes. And we definitely didn’t discuss my suit.”

  “You know how sharp kids are these days. Street psychics are crazy good at cold reading.”

  “Then how about this, Nishikawa—you handle the investigation. Since you’re with Public Security Section 9 now.”

  He hung up before Nishikawa could respond.

  Beep…

  “Hey—hey! Damn it, none of these guys are reliable.”

  Beep… beep…

  He had to go home. See his wife. Call his old man. Maybe catch the neighborhood gossips if he was lucky.

  Ah, crap. Forgot to buy toilet paper.

  Takashi grabbed a standard-issue dark blue coat—the kind with “Metropolitan Police Department” emblazoned across the back in gold—and stepped out into the rainy night.