Takashi slumped onto the sidewalk, shoving a rice ball into his mouth.

  He’d gotten up early to grill the neighborhood gossips. No leads.

  No one remembered the boy. And in this upscale area, tracking the kids of influential families was easy. Takashi had followed the trail to Bunkyo’s university district.

  Every student matching the boy’s age was accounted for. Not a single one missing. Safe to say the district’s security was top-notch.

  Takashi took another angry bite, washing it down with tea.

  The trail had gone cold. But he couldn’t shake the question—how had the boy known about his family?

  A warning? A threat?

  He closed his eyes, mentally scrolling through today’s news.

  “Popular Virtual Idol’s Favorite Emoji”

  “A Merleau-Ponty and Taoist Perspective on…”

  “31-Year-Old Lawmaker Shocks with…”

  Again. The internet’s endless drivel, designed to make you feel like you’d learned something in five minutes. But your precious time slipped away—news feeds, short videos, all meaningless.

  “Breaking: Latest on Chinese Exchange Student Dismemberment Case!”

  Another headline. Now even mainland media was covering it. Takashi’s frown deepened. The situation was spiraling.

  “Hey, Detective Takashi? It’s Aoki.”

  A call from his subordinate cut through his thoughts.

  “Oh, Aoki. Got anything?”

  “The Institute’s done the autopsy. They want to keep the body for further tests.”

  “Got it. Email me the report. Good work. Get some rest—call me this afternoon.”

  Another dead end. The Metropolitan PD had its own forensics team, but no—this “neutral” Institute under the Ministry of Health had to take over.

  The investigation too. His division specialized in homicides, yet Public Security’s secret police had swooped in. They hunted traitors, not killers.

  A cacophony of city noise—sirens, rush hour—filtered through New Port’s sprawling metropolis, reaching its heart: a high-rise in central Shibusawa.

  “Uh, sir—new development. More body parts found. Confirmed as the victim’s. Stuffed in a duffel bag on a park bench.”

  “Damn it. On my way.”

  “So, Nishikawa. Thoughts?”

  A blond man slouched against Nishikawa’s desk, sipping coffee.

  Nishikawa was deep in case files, pulling up a photo of the suspect—snapped by the victim’s quick-thinking wife despite her terror.

  Another photo showed the garage, captured by first responders. Blood coated every surface, as if someone had poured it everywhere.

  “Doesn’t look like torture. More like they drained him and just… splashed it around.”

  “Yeah. Like slaughtering a pig back home. Catch the blood in a bucket.” The blond man smirked.

  Nishikawa ignored the crass analogy.

  This was his senior—joined a few months earlier. They weren’t close enough for first names. Just “Oota.” His flashy style didn’t fit a cop, a bureaucrat, or even Section 9.

  To Nishikawa, he had no business being here. Rumors said he’d been a host before recruitment.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  But both were just Section 9 reserves—trained by their instructor, Batou, and only deployed for major cases like this when manpower ran low.

  Nishikawa ruffled his curly hair, dislodging crumbs from last night’s fried chicken—and maybe some inspiration, gone for good.

  “But isn’t it obvious? The kid in the news is the killer. Why else was he in that garage?”

  Oota flipped through evidence.

  “Look. His prints are on the weapon. Case closed.”

  “Yeah. Me and the Met PD think so too. Just waiting on reports to seal it. Ideally, he talks. But even if he doesn’t, we’ve got enough.”

  Nishikawa rubbed his eyes. “But something feels off. He was unconscious when found. If he did it, why pass out? Feels like he was framed.”

  “Dude, come on. You don’t need a psych eval to know anyone who chops people up is batshit.”

  Oota scoffed. “Faking insanity’s old hat. The evidence is airtight.”

  “But doesn’t it strike you as weird? All these inconsistencies point to something bigger. And the media’s gone rabid—calling him ‘Chinese exchange student,’ ‘Chinese psycho,’ ‘college butcher’…”

  “What’s the issue? Media loves sensationalism. Clickbait titles are the only way anyone reads their trash.”

  “You haven’t seen him. I was outside that interrogation room. He just sat there—blank. No reaction to anything. That’s not normal. I don’t think he’s faking.”

  Nishikawa remembered the boy’s eyes—empty. Like all thought had ceased. He looked… dead.

  “Media’s crazy. Cops are crazy. Everyone’s an idiot except you, and the killer’s actually a saint. Blah blah blah.” Oota mocked.

  “Get some sleep, Nishikawa. You’re the one losing it. What, you think this is some conspiracy? You’re not some hotshot detective. Wake up.”

  “You really think a college kid with no life experience could do something this depraved?” Nishikawa snapped.

  “No. But I think you could.”

  Oota grinned, hopping off the desk and ruffling Nishikawa’s hair like an unruly dog.

  Nishikawa swatted his hand away, glaring.

  “The world’s full of psychos. Too many to categorize. Monsters are born, not made. They start with animals, then move on to people.”

  “So stop overthinking. Be a good boy.”

  “Times are rough lately.”

  The taxi driver was one of the few humans left in the job—not because he was better than AI, but because he was retired.

  A free taxi service, part of the city’s welfare program, driven by retirees who ferried passengers around New Port City Station—serving both locals and deep-pocketed tourists.

  The ones who truly needed it never got a ride, but the gesture made Japan’s new capital seem prosperous.

  The car accelerated onto the expressway, the human driver less smooth than AI. Takashi lurched in his seat.

  Battery-powered cars, like human drivers, were nearly extinct. But Honda had dug up some old models and donated them to the city.

  Takashi sat quietly in the passenger seat. Between driving and buses, he’d almost forgotten what it was like to ride shotgun. The mundane scene felt alien, like a past life.

  When did I get so old?

  “First a serial killer, now a kid chopping people up. What a mess.”

  Takashi sighed. “Yeah. People are on edge. Violent crimes are up.”

  “My wife won’t stop nagging me to be careful. But I’ve seen worse.”

  The driver puffed up, reminiscing.

  “It’s always like this when the economy tanks. Protests, gangs, stock market crashes…”

  His eyes kept darting from the road to Takashi, who gripped his seat.

  “I joined a protest once. Holding a sign, calling cops ‘tax thieves,’ cursing the mayor, the Diet, the government. Good times.” He chuckled.

  Takashi stayed silent. He’d been mobilized for riot duty once.

  It was a drivers’ union protest—public and private transport workers united against AI, their livelihoods stolen.

  Back then, he was just a beat cop, cluelessly handed a riot shield and thrown into the fray.

  That day, he’d arrested a man who’d broken through the cordon, nearly reaching City Hall. But he’d taken a rock to the head for it.

  “Everyone’s got pent-up frustration. Better they take it out on cops and politicians than start killing.”

  The driver nodded. “Still, thank God for the police. Seeing them on patrol makes me feel safe.”

  Takashi smiled.

  “Though, uh… back at that protest, I might’ve thrown a rock at a young cop’s head. Got two days in jail.”

  The driver rubbed his bald head sheepishly.

  “My daughter still gives me hell for it. Says I ruined her civil service exam chances.”

  Takashi’s eye twitched. He shut them, feigning sleep.

  “Hope that kid’s still a cop. These days, hope he’s safe.”

  “Outside the city” was a misnomer. New Port City was tiny—the outer areas were just Greater Tokyo.

  A man-made island, built with astronomical budgets to serve as Japan’s nominal capital post-imperial era. Political institutions had relocated, but Tokyo remained the true heart of Japan.

  No history, no culture—just decades of existence.

  Yet land here was pricey. As the capital, every major corporation wanted headquarters here, despite Tokyo being right next door. It wasn’t just real estate—it was prestige. Only the wealthiest, most powerful companies could afford it.

  Which made it all the more impressive that Takashi’s parents had scraped together enough for a downtown apartment.

  Within an hour, Takashi reached Toyosu in Tokyo’s Koto Ward—home to the Institute of Unnatural Death Causes, a place he frequented as a detective.

  Normally, a ferry or bus from headquarters was easy, but today’s urgency meant delays.

  As he stepped out, he spotted Aoki pacing by the entrance.

  “Takashi! Finally. The report’s not done yet, but come take a look.”

  Aoki led the way straight to the autopsy room.

  At the door stood a familiar figure—Dr. Amamiya Chiaki, one of UDI’s few female medical examiners, and arguably the prettiest.

  “Ah, Detective Takashi. There you are.”

  Her smile was flawless.

  “Sorry for the wait, Doctor.”

  “Let’s begin, then.”

  The door swung open, unleashing a wave of antiseptic.

  And there, once more, lay the victim—

  —Iguchi Hachirou.