A long, uncomfortable silence settled over the cramped apartment as both Daichi and Hiragi stared at Light with matching expressions of blank surprise. Hiragi's eyes slid comically toward Daichi, and Daichi's did the same toward him, the two of them locking gazes for a moment before slowly looking back at the uma standing politely by the entrance.
Light's ears twitched as her head tilted slightly in confusion, though she maintained her composure while setting the transparent umbrella against the wall. Straightening with both hands wrapped around the handle of the thermos she had brought with her. She then offered a neat bow. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting. My name is Kamakura Light."
Hiragi immediately grabbed Daichi by the shoulder and dragged him toward the corner of the apartment, bending low enough to whisper harshly near his ear while still keeping one suspicious eye on Light. "Kid, why the hell didn't ya tell me ya had a girlfriend, and an uma at that?" His gaze flicked toward the thermos in her hands before narrowing further. "Wait a damn second, how old is she? She legal?"
Daichi's eyes widened so violently that some life finally seemed to return to his face. "What the hell are you implying?!" he hissed back. "Sides, she's not my girlfriend, she's just a friend, and before you start building some stupid romcom in your head, it's a long story, alright?"
"Kid, I've been around a hell of a lot longer than you, and I'm tellin' ya, girls don't show up at some random guy's door in the middle of a storm carryin'…" Hiragi glanced over his shoulder again, his eyes locking onto the thermos before he turned back with the smug certainty of a man who believed he had cracked the case. "I'm willin' to bet that's homemade shit, and that ain't friend stuff. That's girlfriend stuff."
"Would you cut it out, Unc?" Daichi snapped under his breath, his face burning as he glanced back toward Light, who only seemed to grow more confused the longer their whispering continued. "She's gonna hear you, and we're just friends, okay? Friends. Nothing more, nothing less, so stop making it weird."
"Still, I gotta tell ya, she's real cute, and I don't mean that in a creepy middle-aged way," Hiragi continued, glancing back toward Light with a knowing smirk. "I'm just sayin', if yer gonna pick one, she's right on the—"
"Unc!" Daichi snapped, his face burning as he elbowed him hard enough to make the older man grunt.
Both of them straightened and turned back toward Light as though nothing strange had happened, though Hiragi's smirk made that illusion impossible to maintain. "Nice ta meet'cha," he said, rubbing the back of his head before ruffling Daichi's hair with his other hand, earning an immediate scowl from the boy. "Name's Tōma Hiragi, and I'm this knucklehead's uncle."
"Oh," Light replied, her ears perking as her tail flicked once behind her. "Daichi did mention he had an uncle. It's a pleasure to meet you, Hiragi-san."
"So, what brings ya all the way out here?" Hiragi asked, his tone casual despite the curiosity in his eyes. "Don't mind me askin', but it ain't exactly sunshine outside, and ya must've gotten soaked on the way over."
Light glanced down at herself and seemed to notice only then that her uniform shirt had darkened slightly from the rain, while her socks and shoes were damp enough to leave small marks near the entrance. "Well, I went to the convenience store where Daichi works, but when I arrived, I found out it had been wrecked during a Gurentai attack, and after hearing that, I became worried." Her gaze shifted briefly toward Daichi. "Especially when Dahlia mentioned that she hadn't heard from him in a while."
"Dahlia?" Hiragi repeated, immediately shooting Daichi another smirk that made the younger man's expression twist. "'Nother one of yer friends, huh?"
Light nodded, unaware of the silent exchange between them. "She told me you hadn't been replying to any of her messages, so I thought I should come and check on you myself. I hope you don't mind, but Dahlia gave me your address."
"Did ya now? That's real kind of ya," Hiragi said, his smirk widening enough to reveal the jagged edges of his shark-like teeth. "Well, in that case, I best get goin'. Work and all that. Besides, the two of ya don't need some old man crampin' yer style."
Daichi's eyes narrowed. "Unc."
Hiragi ignored the warning completely as he made his way toward the entrance, and when Light politely stepped aside, he picked up his umbrella and slipped his white loafers back on with the air of a man who knew exactly how much trouble he was causing.
Before leaving, however, he turned back and offered Light a small bow that was surprisingly proper for someone like him. "Before I go, please take care of him, won'tcha? Boy's a moron, but he's got heart."
Light's cheeks flushed faintly while Daichi's voice cracked through the apartment in mortified protest. "Unc!"
Hiragi chuckled and gave Daichi a lazy salute. "Be seein' ya, kid."
He turned toward the door before suddenly grimacing, one hand immediately clutching his stomach as he doubled over slightly.
"Ah, shit," he muttered through gritted teeth. "Damned gut's actin' up again."
The older man took a slow breath and shook his head in irritation, as though personally offended by his own digestive system. "Gonna have to swing by the pharmacy on the way back," he grumbled under his breath. "I swear my stomach's got a personal vendetta against me."
The door opened, letting in the sound of rain once more as Hiragi raised his umbrella and stepped into the storm, and when the door shut behind him, the apartment fell into a silence that suddenly made every pile of laundry, every overflowing trash bag, and every dirty dish feel twice as visible. Light's gaze slowly moved across the room, taking in the state of the apartment with widening eyes while Daichi stood there with a stiff, nervous smile that did absolutely nothing to make him look less guilty.
"Um," he said. "I can explain."
****
Little by little, the apartment began to resemble a place people could actually live in again. Daichi and Light spent the better part of the next several hours cleaning, sorting, scrubbing, and hauling away the accumulated neglect of the past two weeks. Dishes disappeared from the sink one load at a time, trash bags were filled, tied, separated, and carried downstairs, and laundry was gathered from every corner of the apartment.
Magazines, books, receipts, and loose scraps of paper were organized into neat piles instead of the chaotic landscape they had become. By the time they were finished, the storm outside had weakened from a violent downpour to a steady drizzle, and although the occasional rumble of thunder still rolled through the mountains beyond the city, the worst of the weather had long since passed.
It was nearly nine o'clock by the time they finally sat down, and as Daichi looked around the apartment, he barely recognized it. During the cleanup alone, he had discovered half a dozen things he had been convinced were lost forever, including several manga volumes he thought he had lent out months ago, a charger that had vanished sometime last year, and enough loose yen hidden beneath piles of laundry and old magazines to buy himself lunch for the next few days.
The apartment was far from spotless, as dust still clung stubbornly to the windows and the curtains hanging beside them remained stained and discolored from months of neglect. A faint scent of mildew lingered despite their efforts, while years of wear still showed through the faded walls and aging fixtures. Even so, the apartment no longer felt abandoned, and for the first time in weeks, it felt inhabited.
Daichi sat at the short table and lowered his chopsticks onto the edge of an empty bowl after finishing the last of the congee Light had brought with her. The simple meal had nearly brought him to tears, as the taste reminded him so strongly of the way his mother used to make it that, for a moment, he felt transported back to a time when life was simpler, when illness meant staying home from school beneath a blanket while a warm meal waited for him in the kitchen.
Steam drifted lazily from two cups of tea resting between them as Light sat quietly across the table, her hands wrapped around her cup while her eyes remained lowered toward the pale green surface. She appeared to be watching the thin ribbons of steam curl upward into the air, though Daichi suspected she was simply processing everything he had told her, because he had told her everything. The convenience store, the Gurentai, Red, Logan, and most importantly, what Logan had done.
"So," Light began at last, "Logan was there that night, and you're telling me that he was the one who did all of that?"
Daichi nodded, and Light sat in silence for several moments before her shoulders rose and fell in a small shrug. "Honestly, I'm not entirely surprised."
Daichi blinked in confusion. "You aren't?"
Light shook her head slightly. "Do you remember that night in the alley, the one with those boys?"
Daichi nodded again, and Light continued, "There was something about him that night that bothered me, not because I thought he was dangerous, but because it felt like he was constantly holding something back. Even as he took them down, I got the impression that he was restraining himself." Her ears twitched thoughtfully before she added, "And if I'm being honest, I think that if you hadn't cried out when you did, things would have become much worse."
Daichi let out a hollow laugh. "Much worse is putting it lightly."
His gaze dropped to the table as he continued, "What happened in that store wasn't some random burst of anger or a guy losing his temper. Every movement was intentional, every hit landed exactly where he wanted it to, and he knew what he was doing. Worse, he looked like he'd done it before."
His jaw tightened as he added, "There wasn't any hesitation, no panic, no regret. Nothing."
Light listened without interrupting as Daichi went on, "Look, I'm not saying Logan's some psychopath who enjoys hurting people, because I don't think that's true, but he wasn't scared, Light. Not even a little. He wasn't shaken afterward either. Those were just a bunch of stupid kids who got in way over their heads, but he didn't treat them like kids."
He closed his eyes and pressed a hand against his forehead before admitting, "I don't know. Maybe I'm losing it, maybe I'm driving myself insane by thinking about this over and over again, but the truth is... I'm scared."
Light paused before asking softly, "Scared?"
"For you," Daichi replied, "and for Dahlia too."
Light's ears perked slightly as Daichi continued, "You're around him all the time, so what's stopping him from snapping one day and—"
"Daichi."
The firmness in Light's voice caused him to stop, and she looked at him steadily as she asked, "Do you honestly believe Logan would do something like that to us?"
Daichi opened his mouth, then closed it again before finally admitting, "Yes. No. Maybe." He let out a frustrated groan and covered his face with both hands. "I don't know anymore. That's the problem. I don't know what to think."
Silence settled between them before Daichi spoke again. "This city feels insane, and honestly, the whole world feels insane. Everywhere I look there's another story about someone getting hurt, someone disappearing, someone fighting, someone dying, and somehow I keep getting dragged right into the middle of it whether I want to be there or not."
His hands slowly lowered as he continued, "Life already had me on my knees before any of this happened. I couldn't even work a dead-end convenience store job without ending up with a gun pointed at my head and bodies dropping around me."
His gaze drifted toward the darkened window as he went on, "Sometimes I feel like screaming at the sky and asking what exactly the man upstairs wants from me. Is there some lesson I'm supposed to be learning, some test I'm supposed to be passing?" His laugh carried no humor as he added, "Or does He just get some sick amusement out of watching people like me, like you, like Dahlia keep running in circles until something finally breaks?"
Light remained silent as Daichi met her eyes and continued, "Everyone keeps telling me to be strong, saying everything happens for a reason and that what doesn't kill me makes me stronger, but every time someone tries talking about how much things suck, there's always someone ready to tell them they should be grateful because somebody else has it worse."
He let out a bitter laugh before continuing, "Imagine that, being told to suck it up and be happy because somebody else's life is even more miserable than yours, like suffering is some kind of competition and we're supposed to feel better because someone else is drowning faster."
His fingers curled around the teacup as he spoke more quietly, "But the truth is, I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to keep fighting every single day just for the right to exist, and I don't want to drag myself out of bed, take hit after hit, then crawl back home just so I can do it all again tomorrow." He stared into the tea as though searching for an answer within it before adding, "Hell, I'm only in my twenties, and there are days when I'm already praying for the finish line."
A pause, before he finally said, "Life's hard, Light. It's cruel, it's exhausting, and it never seems to let up." His shoulders sagged as though all the weight he had been carrying finally revealed itself, and when he looked up at her, there was nothing left to hide as he admitted, "And honestly, I'm tired. I'm so damn tired."
A quiet stillness settled over the apartment after Daichi's words faded. Rain tapped gently against the windows, and distant thunder rolled across the city, yet neither sound could break the heavy silence between them. Light's tail flicked once before she rose without a word. She moved around the table and sat beside him, her shoulder brushing lightly against his. After a brief hesitation, she leaned her head against him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Daichi stiffened at once. His eyes widened, and a faint flush crept across his cheeks. Every coherent thought seemed to vanish, yet he didn't pull away.
Light closed her eyes and spoke softly. "I understand, Daichi, perhaps more than you realize."
There was a quiet sadness in her words that drew his full attention.
"After the accident, after my father was taken away, I felt completely lost," she continued. "For a long time, it felt like life had singled out my family and decided no amount of suffering would ever be enough. Every time we recovered from one hardship, another would take its place. It felt endless, like standing beneath an avalanche that never stopped falling."
Her fingers tightened into fists on her lap. "I know what it feels like to be exhausted by it all," she said. "I know what it's like to lie awake at night and wonder if it would be easier to stop trying. To stop struggling, to stop hurting."
She blinked rapidly, holding back tears.
"There were days when giving up felt comforting. Days when the thought of lying down and letting everything end seemed easier than facing another disappointment." A faint, joyless smile touched her lips. "The only thing that kept me going was my siblings. Whenever I thought about giving up, I thought about them, and somehow I found the strength to keep moving forward."
Her gaze lowered. "But even then, I won't pretend the temptation wasn't there."
Daichi remained silent, listening.
Light took a slow breath. "We grow up hearing that help is always there if we're brave enough to ask. That people care, that someone will catch us when we fall." Her eyes softened. "But the older I get, the more I realize those promises are often just words people tell themselves so they can sleep at night."
A bitter laugh escaped her. "They sell you comforting stories. They tell you there are systems in place to protect you, that justice exists, that compassion is waiting just around the corner." She shook her head. "Most of the time, it's just a beautiful lie."
Her ears lowered slightly. "I've lost count of how many promises were made to my father and me after his arrest. The public defenders said they were looking out for his best interests. They told him accepting a plea deal was the safest option, that fighting would only make things worse. Eventually, he agreed because we didn't have the money to keep going."
Her expression hardened. "And do you know what happened after that?"
Daichi shook his head quietly.
"Nothing," she said. The word carried no anger, which made it sound even sadder. "The attacks didn't stop. The rumors didn't stop. Fujii and people like him only grew bolder because no one stood in their way anymore." Her gaze drifted toward the window. "The prosecutors got another victory. The public defenders cleared another case from their workload. Everyone moved on with their lives."
A hollow smile crossed her face. "Everyone except us."
Daichi listened intently.
"Maybe that's why people drift toward places like the MRA," Light continued. "When enough doors close in your face, when enough people let you down, and when enough promises turn out to be empty, even the smallest light in the darkness starts to look like salvation."
"I've never admitted this to anyone before." She paused. "But the MRA wasn't just about helping my siblings. That was part of it, but not the whole truth. I wanted enough money to hire a real lawyer. Someone who would actually fight for my father instead of convincing him to give up. I wanted to clear his name, bring him home, and somehow put my family back together."
She gave a faint shrug. "My foster parents have been wonderful. They've supported me every step of the way. Helping me file appeals, contact the Ministry of Justice, gather documents, and chase every lead." A sad smile appeared. "I owe them more than I can ever repay."
The smile faded. "But after months of letters, meetings, paperwork, appeals, and investigations, all we've gotten are delays, excuses, and endless bureaucratic loops." Her eyes lowered again. "Then one day, I overheard people laughing."
Daichi frowned slightly. "Laughing?"
Light nodded. "The people at the Ministry, but not at me, and not even at my father," she said. "They were laughing at the system itself, at how people like us keep believing things will change if we just wait a little longer, file one more appeal, submit one more form, and trust people who stopped caring a long time ago."
She let out a quiet breath. "And in that moment, I realized something." Her gaze shifted toward Daichi. "I realized that for some people, hope isn't something they're given." She paused briefly. "It's something they have to steal."
"Light…" Daichi murmured softly, his expression finally beginning to soften.
Light's hand slowly found his beneath the edge of the table, her fingers slipping between his with a quiet certainty as she leaned a little more of her weight against him. "You're right about this world, Daichi," she said softly. "It is cruel, unforgiving, and far too willing to crush people who have done nothing to deserve it, and sometimes it really does feel as though life is sadistic enough to keep pushing someone down simply to see how long they can keep breathing beneath the weight."
Daichi remained still, his gaze lowered toward their joined hands as Light continued.
"But even if that's the reality we have to live with, it doesn't mean we have to face it alone." She lifted her head just enough to meet his eyes, her expression gentle but steady. "You have me, you have Dahlia, you have Logan, you have your uncle Hiragi, and whether you believe it right now or not, you have people who would notice if you disappeared from their lives."
Her smile was small, but sincere.
"The Shibuya Stakes is in two weeks," she said, her thumb brushing lightly over his knuckles. "Logan and Dahlia have been training relentlessly, and I've been doing everything I can on my end as well. I can't promise what will happen, but I can tell you that neither of them is walking into that race half-heartedly."
Daichi's gaze drifted back toward the surface of his tea, where the last wisps of steam had begun to fade. "Do you think they can win?" he asked quietly. "Do you really think Dahlia has what it takes?"
Light closed her eyes for a moment and took a slow breath, as though weighing the question with the care it deserved. "What does your heart tell you, Daichi?"
For a while, he said nothing. Then he leaned his head gently against hers, allowing the warmth of her presence to settle beside the ache in his chest.
"Yeah," he murmured at last. "I believe she does."
The silence that followed felt different from the one that had filled the apartment earlier, no longer heavy with fear or exhaustion, but softened by the quiet comfort of two people simply remaining beside one another. Between the faint drip of the loose tap in the kitchen sink and the gentle patter of rain against the window, the apartment seemed to breathe again, and for the first time in what felt like far too long, Daichi allowed himself to rest within a moment that did not ask him to keep fighting.
****
The electronic chime of a cheap alarm clock rang out from the speaker on one of the officers' cluttered desks, its thin, tinny notes reverberating across the dimly lit C.H.A.S.E. floor as the display marked three in the morning. At that hour, the office had fallen into an unnatural stillness, with only a handful of halogen lights left burning overhead, their pale glow spilling across rows of empty desks while leaving others half-swallowed by shadow.
Some workstations were buried beneath files wrapped in aged manila folders, the paper worn thin at the edges and tied with twine that had long since come loose, while others remained meticulously arranged, every pen, notepad, framed photograph, and gashapon trinkets placed with the kind of precision that said more about the officer than any personnel file ever could. Most of the little figures scattered across those desks were chibi resin versions of famous umas, bright-eyed and smiling in a room dedicated to hunting down the worst shadows their world had to offer.
Though most of the offices had gone quiet for the night, the same could not be said for Red Harlow's. From behind the polished wooden door bearing his name on a steel-mounted plate, music thumped hard enough to make the frame vibrate faintly, the muffled crash of guitars, drums, and rap-laced lyrics bleeding into the otherwise silent floor.
[Lying From You — Linkin Park]
Inside, Red sat behind his desk in the amber pool of a single lamp, mouthing along to the lyrics while bobbing his head to the beat. The rest of the office remained steeped in darkness. The corners swallowed by shadow while the desk itself looked like the aftermath of a paper storm. Stacks of files, loose photographs, printed reports, prison records, crime-scene notes, and half-empty folders covered nearly every inch of available space, forcing his cup of coffee to sit dangerously close to the edge. The coffee itself smelled too dark, too burnt, and far too strong for any reasonable human being to be drinking, yet Red had been nursing it for hours as though bitterness and caffeine were the only things keeping him upright.
His hazel eyes drifted across the documents spread before him, narrowing as he studied the words stamped in black ink across records dating back nearly a decade to Kentucky State Penitentiary. The further he read, the heavier the atmosphere inside the office seemed to become. Mugshots of inmates stared back at him from the pages, some expressionless, some smirking, some hollow-eyed in a way that made his stomach twist, while the incident reports attached to them painted a picture ugly enough to make the cheap bento and fried dumplings he had eaten earlier threaten to rise back up his throat.
The photographs were worse.
Ghastly injuries filled the images scattered across the desk, each one clinical in presentation yet horrific in detail. Severed limbs photographed beneath fluorescent medical lights. Bones broken so violently that the skin had split around them. Faces swollen beyond recognition. Bodies opened by crude attempts at disembowelment. The sort of damage that stripped the violence of any romantic notion and left behind only the brutal truth of what people were capable of doing to one another when enough hatred, fear, or boredom was allowed to fester behind bars.
Red exhaled sharply and lifted one of the larger photographs from the mess. It showed the inside of a man's forearm, from wrist to elbow, marked by an intricate tattoo rendered in black ink. At first glance, the design looked like an amalgamation of tribal influences woven together into a single sprawling pattern, with shapes that suggested Hawaiian, Oceanian, and Southeast Asian motifs layered over one another until they became difficult to separate. Palm trees curved along the forearm. Shark forms cut through the negative space. Spiders crouched between angular bands and interlocking lines.
The tattoo itself was striking enough to demand attention, yet it was not the artistry that held Red's interest. It was the meaning behind it. More than that, it was the man he had seen wearing it. A rasp of knuckles against wood lifted Red's eyes from the photograph just as the knob twisted and the office door opened, allowing Detective Nishimura to step inside with the weary posture of a man who had already worked too many late nights and expected this one to become worse before morning.
The older detective wore a gray shirt tucked into black slacks, with an oaken tie hanging loosely around his neck and his collar left open, while his thick mustache shifted with the grimace that crossed his face the moment the music hit him at full force.
"Goddamn, Harlow, you keep blasting that crap at this volume and you are going to be deaf before retirement," Nishimura said as he shut the door behind him. "Besides, aren't you a little too old for this kind of music? Sounds like something teenagers listen to when their hormones start making all their decisions for them."
Red reached over and turned the volume knob down without taking his eyes completely off the photograph, though the roll of his eyes made his opinion clear enough. "Hey, I don't bust ya chops over that kayōkyoku crap you blast in the cruiser every time you're out on patrol, so don't come crawlin' into my office and start shittin' on my music."
Nishimura gave him a flat look.
Red smirked as he leaned back in his chair. "Besides, these guys were huge a few years back, and before you start actin' like I'm listenin' to some garage band nobody's heard of, they were uma trainers over at Stalliongard and won a whole mountain of Stellas for it too. Hell, half the time more people showed up for 'em than for the girls they were trainin'."
"I know who they are," Nishimura replied as he stepped closer to the desk, his gaze drifting briefly toward the speakers. "Xero. For a while, I couldn't walk two blocks without hearing one of their tracks playing somewhere, whether it was in a store, a taxi, or some kid's phone on the train."
Red's smirk deepened.
Nishimura pointed a finger at him before he could say anything. "Wipe that look off your face, kid. I am old, but I am not that old, and just because I do not enjoy damaging my hearing for entertainment does not mean I know nothing about popular music." He shrugged slightly as he approached the desk.
"Hey, I didn't say a damn thing," Red replied, though the amused glint in his eyes suggested he had been thinking plenty. "Still, yeah, shame what happened to their lead." His gaze lowered for a moment as the music continued at a quieter volume in the background. "Came outta nowhere for a lotta people, but then afterward ya start hearin' things, and suddenly everybody's talkin' like they knew he'd been drownin' for years. Funny how that works, ain't it? Sometimes nobody sees the water risin' till the guy's already gone under."
Nishimura's expression sobered.
Red's mouth softened into something almost nostalgic. "Caught their last concert at Madison Square Garden before, ya know, everything happened. Place was packed wall to wall, and I swear you couldn't hear yerself think for three days afterward."
"I wonder what happened to the other half," Nishimura said as he folded his arms, his brow furrowing slightly. "The one named Sol."
Red gave him another knowing look, and Nishimura immediately scoffed. "I said wipe that damned smirk off your face, kid."
Red lifted both hands in mock surrender, the amused glint in his eyes. "Once again, I didn't say nothin'," he replied before his expression grew more thoughtful. "Last I heard, the band fell apart, and Sol walked away from Stalliongard before crashin' out pretty damned hard. Spent the next few years makin' one hell of a career outta wreckin' other people's careers and crushin' dreams wherever he went. He released a couple solo albums somewhere along the way, but they never had the same spark."
As Red finished, Nishimura's gaze wandered toward the files spread across the desk, and the easy atmosphere surrounding their discussion of music gradually began to fade. "My old partner used to say that hurt people hurt people," he said. "Sometimes they turn that pain inward and destroy themselves, while other times they inflict it upon everyone around them because they believe it will somehow fix what's busted up inside."
His mustache shifted as his mouth tightened into a solemn line. "I was never a fan of their music, but even I could hear the truth buried in those lyrics. Those songs were filled with all the things they desperately wanted to say but never possessed the courage, or perhaps the nerve, to speak aloud."
"Yeah." Red followed his gaze before shaking his head. "But forget all that. I didn't call ya down here at three in the mornin' to shoot the shit about bands and stuff."
"Believe me, that much I assumed," Nishimura replied. "When I got your message, I already knew you were either chasing something important or about to make my night significantly worse." His eyes settled on the Kentucky State Penitentiary files. "What I would like to know is why everything about this needed to be so hush-hush."
Red shrugged as he set the photograph back down on the desk, then leaned forward and rested his elbows on the cluttered surface while steepling his fingers, the amber glow of the desk lamp stretching long shadows across his face as the muted hum of his music drifted through the speakers behind him, giving the room a low, restless energy.
"Before I tell ya anything, I need ya to promise me something," he said, his tone losing its earlier edge of humor as his gaze fixed on Nishimura. "Not a word of this gets back to Lightning, not a single word, ya hear me?"
Nishimura frowned, clearly caught off guard by the sudden shift in seriousness. "Lightning? What exactly does this have to do with—"
"I'm serious, Nishi," Red interrupted. "Ya so much as breathe any of this to her. Hell, if ya so much as blab to yer partner, Kaito, and I'll personally wax yer lips shut and rip that damned mustache clean off yer face, capisce?"
Nishimura stared at him for a moment, weighing the intensity behind the threat before finally throwing both hands up in surrender with a resigned sigh. "Good God, alright, there's no need for threats," he said, shaking his head. "My lips are sealed."
Only then did Red ease back slightly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he reached out and placed a hand on the photograph of the tattoo before slowly sliding it across the desk toward the older detective.
"Ya know what this is?" he asked. "Better yet, does it look familiar?"
Nishimura picked up the photograph and studied it carefully, his eyes tracing every detail as silence settled between them for several long moments. The longer he stared, the deeper the crease between his brows became until he finally muttered, almost to himself, "Now that you mention it, why does this look so damned familiar?"
Then something clicked, and his eyes widened as realization began to take shape. "Hold on," he said, lifting his gaze sharply to meet Red's. "Is this… is this what I think it is?"
Red nodded slowly, exhaling as if acknowledging the weight of what they were stepping into.
"Yeah."
"Shit," Nishimura whispered, lowering the photograph slightly before looking at it again with renewed intensity. "I've heard the stories," he continued quietly. "Ever since I was your age, chasing yakuza, syndicates, gangbangers, smugglers, every flavor of organized crime you can imagine, I can't think of a single old-timer who didn't know the story, even if most of them laughed it off, though every now and then you'd catch one lowering his voice whenever it came up."
Red leaned back in his chair, watching him closely. "You and I both know that ink means somethin' in the underworld," he said. "It ain't just decoration, it marks who ya run with, what ya believe, where ya stand, and most importantly what yer earned, and every gang, every syndicate, every crew has its own language carved into skin."
His eyes hardened as he gestured toward the photograph. "But there's one piece of ink that gets talked about differently, not like a symbol or a badge, but more like a ghost story."
Nishimura remained silent. His attention fixed entirely on Red now.
"Tell me something, Nishi," Red continued, holding his gaze. "What do ya know about the High Table?"
"The High Table?" Nishimura repeated, his expression shifting into skepticism. "That old fairy tale about a cabal of twelve crime families secretly running the world from behind the curtain?" He scoffed lightly before adding, "Come on, you don't actually believe—"
"They're real," Red said flatly.
The words landed with a weight that immediately cut through Nishimura's disbelief, freezing him in place as he stared at Red in silence before suddenly bursting into laughter.
"Oh, I get it now," he said, pointing at him with a grin. "This is one of your gotcha moments, isn't it? You're going to let me run my mouth for ten minutes before telling me you've been screwing with me the whole time."
But Red didn't laugh, didn't smile. He simply looked back at him. The laughter faltered, then died completely as Nishimura's grin faded. "Wait," he said slowly, his expression tightening as realization crept in. "Y-you're serious?"
Red nodded once.
"Who do ya think bankrolled the MRA back in the early days?" he asked. "Sure, things are different now, the MRA's grown so damned big that I'd wager they've got the Table by the balls these days rather than the other way around, but that ain't the point."
He leaned forward again, his focus sharpening. "One of the Big Three sitting at that table belongs to a syndicate operatin' out of Southeast Asia, mostly Indonesia."
Nishimura listened without interruption. His earlier skepticism replaced by a growing sense of unease.
"Nobody knows exactly where they're officially headquartered," Red continued. "Some reports say Jakarta, others point to some island that doesn't exist, but it don't really matter 'cause what matters is their name."
"They call themselves the Rakyat, and before ya go thinkin' they're just another bunch of gangbangers fighting over street corners and territory, let me save ya the trouble, because they've got operations all over the damned globe." His fingers tapped lightly against the desk as he spoke. "From counterfeitin' and smugglin' to extortion, arms dealing, drugs, and human traffickin', and pretty much every dirty business ya can think of, they've got their fingers in it somewhere."
Nishimura's jaw tightened as he absorbed the scope of it.
"But all that ain't what makes 'em dangerous," Red added, his words dropping low enough that the room seemed to grow quieter around him despite the music still murmuring from the speakers in the background. "It's that they're a damned cult. Real zealot types who don't just wear the faith like some gang colors, but breathe it, eat it, sleep with it, and let it decide every damn thing they do."
Nishimura blinked, and for a moment the older detective said nothing in response, as though the word had settled somewhere heavy inside his chest.
"Every last one of 'em," Red continued as his expression hardened. "They huff the Kool-Aid of some twisted made-up religion called Arunika and a list of laws they call Hukum, which roughly translates to the Code. That shit don't just govern the gang itself, but every part of their lives, and they genuinely believe there's some kinda paradise waitin' for 'em on the other side if they bleed, kill, or die the right way."
He let the words hang for a moment, his eyes never leaving Nishimura's face. "That's why they don't scare easy, and hell, most of 'em don't scare at all, because how do ya threaten a man who already thinks dyin' gets him rewarded?" Red exhaled sharply before finishing, "And that right there is why every agency that knows these bastards exist treats 'em like a nightmare."
Nishimura stared at the tattoo for a long moment, the weight of everything he had just heard settling over him until he finally muttered under his breath, "Goddamn." A long beat passed before Nishimura finally lifted his gaze from the photograph to Red, his expression still troubled as he asked, "That being said, where exactly are you going with this?"
Red tilted his chin toward the picture of the tattoo in Nishimura's hand. "That right there is what they call a Tatau," he said, before gesturing toward the mess of files spread across his desk. "Spent the past two weeks readin' up on these bastards, every scrap of lore, every story, every half-buried report I could get my hands on, and Christ, Nishi, the things I learned."
He grabbed one of the folders, flipped it open, and revealed several photographs of different tattoos, each one marked with handwritten notes beneath it. "Every piece of ink tells a story, carries meanin', marks a rank, a vow, a crime, a kill, or some holy nonsense they think ties 'em closer to whatever god they're prayin' to. Hell, some of 'em even believe the ink grants 'em power, protection, strength, luck, all that mystical bullshit, but the thing is, most of these marks come with conditions attached."
Nishimura's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the photographs. "Conditions?" he asked. "You mean like earning stripes on a uniform?"
"Kinda," Red replied. "Some of it's almost laughable if ya don't think too hard about the people doin' it, like climbin' some sacred tree bare-assed in the wind or spendin' a night in the jungle without food, water, or weapons, but then it starts gettin' real ugly, real fast, and suddenly you're readin' about guys takin' down tigers with their bare hands just to prove they're worthy of a piece of ink."
His gaze shifted back to the tattoo photograph in Nishimura's grip. "But that one there is messed up in a whole different way."
"How so?" Nishimura asked, though the look on his face suggested he already knew he would regret the question.
"That ain't just a tattoo," Red said. "That's a ritual, and according to what I found, the poor crazy bastard tryin' to earn it gets two years to collect every part of a man."
Nishimura stared at him. "Every… part? The hell is that supposed to mean?"
"A hundred and sixty-nine pieces," Red said, tapping one of the notes in the folder with his finger. "Teeth, fingers, eyes, ears, skin, bone, whatever the ritual calls for, but here's the part that makes it worse. Every piece has to come from a different man, because to them, it ain't about butcherin' one body, it's about takin' proof from a whole line of enemies and stitchin' all that fear into a reputation."
Nishimura froze, the photograph lowering slightly in his hand. "Hold on, wait, back up," he said. "You are telling me they literally cut pieces from people and collect them like trophies?"
Red nodded once, his expression grim as he kept his eyes on Nishimura. "That's exactly what I'm tellin' ya," he said. "And every time the poor bastard brings back a piece, the Chief inks him, bit by freakin' bit, mark by mark, until the whole story's carved into his skin and there ain't no walkin' away from it anymore."
He tapped the file with two fingers, then dragged them slowly across the page. "Once he's got all of it, the last piece is takin' the head of an enemy leader, and when I say takin' the head, Nishi, I mean the head."
Red let that sit between them for a moment before continuing. "Like I said, the guy gets two years. If he dies somewhere along the way, then he dies, and if he runs outta time before finishin' the ritual, the Rakyat end him themselves, because in their eyes, failin' ain't just weakness, it's shame."
His jaw tightened. "Only after all that does the Rakyat let him wear that ink in full, and with it, he gets the rank that comes with all the blood he spilled to earn it."
Nishimura's grip tightened around the photograph. "What rank?"
Red met his eyes across the desk. "Mahapatra Perang," he said, pronouncing the words slowly, as though even saying them aloud made the room colder. "In their tongue, it means Chief of War, and from what I can piece together, that makes him the second most powerful sumbitch in the entire organization."
Nishimura said nothing, though his face had gone still in a way Red recognized from crime scenes and morgues.
"Not to mention," Red continued, dragging a hand down his face, "the last time the Rakyat had a Chief of War was durin' the war, when the Japs started movin' down south." He leveled his gaze at Nishimura before adding, "No offense."
"None taken," Nishimura replied flatly.
"Anyway," Red said, gesturing toward the photograph, "this picture was taken after the guy finally got himself killed. Turns out that even after Japan surrendered, the crazy jackass refused to stop fightin'. Turned his attention against the newly formed government, tried to pull off a coup, and ended up gettin' himself taken out when the whole thing turned into a complete shitshow."
Red gestured toward the photograph with one finger. "After that, the Rakyat disappeared underground for a long-damned time, and nobody's held the rank since." He paused. "That, and no one's crazy enough to try."
"Far as anyone knows, that's the only photograph of that ink still in existence, which means everythin' else we know comes from old reports, underworld whispers, and the kinds of stories men only tell after they've drowned themselves in a bottle of Jack."
Nishimura slowly set the photograph down on the desk, though he kept one hand resting near it as if he did not quite trust the thing. "Kid, I am following this story, and God help me, you have filled in more than a few holes in the rumors I have heard about this ink over the years," he said as he looked back at Red. "But it still does not answer my question. What does this have to do with—"
"Because a couple years back, reports started circulatin' through INTERPOL's Organized Crime Directorate about the Rakyat havin' a new Chief of War," Red interrupted. "At first, it was nothin' but whispers from informants, but then former members started corroboratin' the stories after they were arrested or turned themselves in. Every one of 'em talked about the same man, somebody they called Pak Lokan, but nobody could give us a real name, a face, or even a halfway decent description, so all we had were rumors piled on top of hearsay."
Red lowered his eyes, his jaw tightening as the final pieces of the mystery aligned in his mind once again. "Then… I saw it with my own two eyes, and just like that, every damned thing clicked into place."
Nishimura went very still.
"I lied." Red then swallowed, his jaw working once before he forced himself to continue. "I didn't take those Gurentai sons of bitches out by myself. I wiped the cameras, cleaned the angles, buried the mess, and made damn sure the report looked neat enough that nobody would ask too many questions, but there was someone else in that store with me that night."
The older detective's expression shifted, unease deepening into something colder. "Who?"
Red looked up at him, and for the first time since Nishimura had entered the office, there was something almost haunted in his eyes. "Logan Deschain," he said, gesturing at the photograph in Nishi's hand. "And that ink? He was wearin' it clear as day."
For a long moment, Nishimura did not move. Red could see the color draining from his face as the older man's eyes widened, first in disbelief, then in horror, before his gaze slowly fell to the files scattered across the desk. Only then did the photographs seem to take on their true shape, every ruined body, every broken inmate, every face twisted in pain and terror suddenly fitting into a pattern neither of them wanted to name.
Red reached beneath one of the folders and pulled out a black-and-white photograph, then placed it carefully on top of the papers between them.
Nishimura nearly faltered.
The photograph showed a severed head resting beneath harsh institutional light, the man's eyes wide, his mouth hanging open as though his final shock had been preserved forever in silver and shadow.
"That there's Hugo Martinez," Red said, rougher now. "He was the head of the Colombian Cartel, sentenced twenty-five to life and servin' it in Kentucky State when all this happened."
Nishimura stared at the photograph. His face tight with revulsion.
Red's eyes hardened as he added, "And I don't gotta tell you how he ended up like that."
"Wait," Nishimura said, dropping the photograph as he took a step back with both hands raised, his eyes wide enough that the desk lamp caught the whites of them. "Wait, wait, wait, hold every damned phone for a moment, because I need to make certain I am understanding what you are telling me."
He drew several deep breaths as though trying to steady himself before the room tilted too far beneath his feet. "You are saying, no, you stating as a matter of fact, that Logan Deschain, the Logan Deschain, the Hand of God, the man who trained the Godly Fifteen and is considered by half the racing world to be the greatest uma trainer in modern history." There was a pause. "Is also the Chief of War, this man named Pak Lokan, who just so happens to be the second most powerful man in one of the largest and most notorious criminal organizations on the planet?"
The older detective stumbled slightly as if his knees had almost given out under him, then waved a trembling hand over the documents and photographs scattered across Red's desk. "And all of this," he continued as his gaze moved from one file to another, "all those convicts, all those injuries, every sorry sap in these reports, you are saying he was responsible for all of it?"
Red's expression hardened as he watched Nishimura's shock turn into understanding. "Now ya see why I don't want any of this gettin' back to Lightning," he said, drawing a sharp breath through his nose. "Look, Nishi, I didn't believe it either, because I couldn't believe it. I kept tellin' myself maybe I was seein' things, maybe the light hit his arm wrong, maybe he slapped on one of those fake tattoo sleeves for some stupid reason, or maybe he got the ink copied just so the other inmates would leave him the hell alone."
He shook his head, the argument dying in his own mouth before he could give it any life. "But Logan ain't that kinda mook, and more than that, he knows exactly what happens to people who wear ink they didn't earn."
Red looked down at the files again, his fingers curling against the edge of the desk. "It's legit, Nishi, and whatever happened to him in that place, whatever he had to become in there…" He rubbed at his temple, his jaw tight with frustration and something closer to dread. "Christ on a stick."
Nishimura lifted one finger as if asking the room itself for permission to pause, then pulled the chair in front of Red's desk toward him and sank into it with his whole body going loose against the backrest. "Sorry, kid, but I need to sit down," he said, still staring at the files as though they might rearrange themselves into a less horrifying answer. "Feel like I'm about to have a damned stroke."
He dragged a hand over his face before looking back at Red. "Still, how in the hell did he get so many of those sons of bitches to throw themselves at him? I mean, after a while, you would think people would stop trying, because even animals learn not to stick their noses where it hurts."
"I can answer that," Red said, his gaze hardening. "Rourke."
Nishimura tilted his head, his expression sharpening despite the pallor still clinging to his face. "Rourke, as in Director Rourke?"
Red nodded. "After Logan offed Johnny, Rourke was dead set on makin' sure the guy never walked outta prison alive," he said. "Me and Lightning found a mountain of ledgers, records, payments, the whole rotten paper trail, and every damn thing pointed to the warden bein' deep in Rourke's pocket."
"The bastard and his cronies were paid real good to look the other way, and once Logan was inside, Rourke put a million on his head, which pretty much painted a giant target on him for every lifer, hitter, cartel butcher, and half-bright psycho in the place."
"Shit," Nishimura muttered, his eyes drifting back to the photographs. "That must have had every scumbag behind bars gunning for him."
"Oh, you got no idea," Red replied, his fingers tapping once against the desk before stilling again. "I was runnin' a different op when Lightning went in to arrest the warden, but from what I heard, he didn't go quietly, and the whole thing turned into a full-blown riot with C.H.A.S.E. guns on one side and dirty prison guards on the other."
Nishimura's brow furrowed. "And the warden?"
"Already dead by the time they got to him," Red said, his mouth twisting grimly. "Turns out somebody strapped him to the chair and fried him crispier than a bucket of KFC."
Nishimura grimaced, the image clearly hitting him harder than he wanted to admit.
Red's gaze fell to the photographs spread across the desk. "I've wondered for a long damn time how Logan survived all those years in there, and suddenly him workin' over those boys like it's just another Tuesday made so much sense," he said quietly, his eyes moving from one gruesome image to the next. "Because Johnny wasn't the last, he was the catalyst."
He gestured over some of the more gruesome ones, his expression tightening as the pieces locked together in a way neither of them could ignore. "This wasn't just him fulfillin' some ritual. This was him sendin' a message to every inmate, every guard, every hitter Rourke paid off, and every crazy sumbitch in that place who thought puttin' Logan Deschain in the ground would make 'em rich."
Red gaze remained fixed on the evidence in front of him. "And once that ink was on him, nobody with half a brain would try again. Even those doin' double life or countin' their days on death row would've heard enough stories to think twice, 'cause at that point gettin' gassed would've been mercy compared to what the Rakyat would do to someone, anyone dumb enough to touch their Chief of War."
His mouth twisted grimly before he added, "And that's assumin' Logan didn't tan their hides himself before they ever got the chance."
The old detective said nothing in response.
Red then massaged his temple as he kept his eyes on the older detective, though the longer the silence stretched between them, the harder it became to hold that gaze without feeling the weight of what he was asking.
"I love Lightning, Nishi, and I mean that," he said, rougher than before. "She's been my partner longer than I can remember, and there ain't a corner of this city I wouldn't walk into with her at my back, but rut me sideways, I hate that she keeps carryin' this furshlugginer delusion in her head about Deschain like he's still the same mook who trained her, made her a champion, and gave her the kind of purpose people spend their whole lives lookin' for."
He gestured vaguely with one hand, frustration tightening around every word. "Even now, after everything we've seen and everything we know, she's still convinced that Deschain's gonna find Jesus, crawl back outta whatever hole he's been livin' in, and stand beside her like old times so they can take on the MRA together."
Nishimura watched him for a moment, his expression caught somewhere between sympathy and warning. "Kid, I am going to level with you," he said carefully. "I understand where you are coming from, and I understand why you are afraid of what this will do to her, but it is still best that you tell her the truth, because nothing good ever comes from keeping secrets from someone, especially when that someone is your partner."
"Don't ya think I know that?!" Red snapped, the words coming out louder than he intended and making Nishimura flinch slightly before Red caught himself and drew a sharp breath. "I have tried, Nishi. Christ as my witness, I have tried multiple times, but for the love of all that's holy and true, she refuses to accept it."
He pinched the bridge of his nose as though trying to press the anger back behind his eyes. "Knowin' her, she'd deny it first, then she'd scream, yell, cuss me out, maybe throw somethin' if the mood hits her right, and when all that finally burns outta her system, she'd still find some way to gaslight herself into whitewashin' the man, because admittin' what he is now means buryin' the version of him she's been holdin' onto all these years."
Nishimura leaned back slightly in his chair, the lines around his eyes deepening. "So, what then?" he asked. "You're just gonna to keep up this ruse until the whole thing collapses on top of you?"
A moment passed before Red answered, and when he did, the anger had cooled into something far more exhausted. "The Stakes are two weeks away, and C.H.A.S.E. is locked and loaded," he said, lowering his hand as his gaze leveled with the older detective's. "When it happens, we're gonna need everyone in top gear, because one bad call, one second of hesitation, one person lookin' the wrong way at the wrong time, and people are gonna die."
He leaned forward, the lamplight catching the hard set of his jaw. "I can't have Lightning all messed up right before this kicks off, not when Porky and Yappy already got their eyes on us and are waitin' for any excuse to sink their teeth in."
Nishimura said nothing, though his silence made it clear he understood the shape of the trap Red had found himself in.
"That's why I need you to keep this quiet," Red continued, almost pleading beneath the grit. "The only reason we're havin' this conversation at all is because I trust ya, because I know ya have my back, and right now, I need to know I didn't screw up by doin' that."
A long pause settled between them, heavy enough that even the low music from Red's speakers seemed to fade into the background. Nishimura drummed his fingers against the armrest of the chair, his mustache shifting with the tense movement of his mouth as his eyes remained lowered toward the files scattered across the desk, and only after several moments did he lift his gaze and give a slow nod.
"Alright," Nishimura said, carrying the weight of a decision he did not make lightly. "Okay, Harlow, I got you."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Red's mouth, though there was more relief in it than humor. "I knew I could count on ya, old man."
"Do not thank me just yet, kid," Nishimura replied, lifting one finger as his expression tightened again. "Sooner or later, you are going to have to come clean, not only for Lightning's sake, but for yours too, because secrets like this do not stay buried simply because we wish very hard that they will." His gaze fell back to mess scattered across the desk. "And if what you are saying is true, if Deschain really is who you say he is, then him stepping into the MRA has opened a whole new can of worms."
Red's expression slackened slightly. "Not sure what you're gettin' at, Nishi."
"I mean you should think about it," Nishimura said, folding his arms. "I do not know what kind of deal Deschain has with the Rakyat that their Chief of War is walking free in Tokyo instead of, I do not know, running things from somewhere much darker and much harder to reach, but if the High Table is real and Deschain is now moving through the MRA, then this feels less like a fall from grace and more like a homecoming."
Red stared at him for a moment before dragging a hand over his temple. "Well, when ya put it that way, shit just keeps gettin' more and more complicated," he muttered. "Hell, I think I need a damned drink."
"You and me both, kid," Nishimura said with a humorless little breath before something seemed to cross his mind, drawing his eyes back to Red. "Speaking of which, there is one thing I just realized. You said the Rakyat sits among the top three, yes?"
Red nodded warily. "Yeah."
"Then, do you happen to know who sits at the very top?"
Red blinked once, then let out a short chuckle as though the answer should have been obvious. "Seriously, ya don't know?"
Nishimura tilted his head, his expression sharpening with suspicion.
"Thought you'd be familiar with 'em, considerin' they're right in yer backyard," Red said, leaning back in his chair as the faintest trace of a smirk returned to his face. "The head honcho at the top of the whole damned Table?"
Nishimura waited.
Red's eyes settled on him.
"The Tojo Clan," Red said, letting the name settle between them before his expression sharpened. "More precisely, their Chairwoman, Agnes Takao."
Nishimura's eyes widened, and for a moment the older detective looked as though Red had reached across the desk and struck him clean across the face.