Deductio:N

Shinku stood in the barren evidence locker. The realization struck like a lightning bolt—there was no trace of viruses, no evidence to follow.

“What the hell is going on?” he muttered. His usually composed demeanor cracked as he stepped back, his hand gripping the edge of a nearby locker for support. “This just makes everything worse…!”

Memories of Kirria’s funeral flooded his mind: Ukiri’s tearful embrace, the warm reception of his speech, and the cold, cruel reality that her death was no accident.

“Damn!” he growled, slamming his forehead against the locker with a loud metallic thud. “Damn! Damn!”

He leaned against the cold steel, his thoughts spiraling. “Binar said it was an epidemic… a crisis spreading unchecked. But if there’s no evidence, then someone is deliberately covering this up.”

Tackle, Bontly, and Johe ate popsicles atop the rooftop. Next to them, a sleek sleigh hovered—a custom flying vehicle piloted by their newest companion, Aiye.

Johe smirked, leaning against the sleigh. “I’ll give it to you, Aiye. For as much of a cocky asshole as you are, you’re not half bad.”

Aiye shrugged. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Johe crossed his arms, his tone turning serious. “Bont, Tackle, let’s face it. Shinku’s losing it. We’ve waited too long. Aiye, you’re the new Shinku.”

Bontly shook his head. “It’s only been a few days, Johe.”

“A few days too many,” Johe snapped.

Shinku’s apartment was a chaotic mess, plastered with papers and reports. The walls were a collage of crime scene photos, timestamps, and maps. His desk was buried under stacks of documents, his computer humming as it updated the latest reports.

“Takuza was human,” Shinku muttered. “Even for an advanced society, no one—human, hybrid, or computer—could cover this much ground so quickly.”

He cross-referenced timestamps and locations. “Some of these reports were made minutes apart, across town. It’s impossible for one person to be in all these places. Someone is tampering with information.”

His thoughts returned to the empty evidence locker. “This isn’t random. Someone within the cybersecurity force is altering these reports, deliberately pointing to Takuza. But why?”

The next morning, the team gathered before Binar. He surveyed his subordinates with a critical eye.

“No Shinku again?” Binar grumbled.

The team reacted in their own ways: Johe sighed, Bontly nodded respectfully, and Tackle hesitated. “No, sir.”

“Hmph,” Binar muttered, dismissing them for their missions.

At the Information Center, Shinku approached an analyst sitting behind a console. The analyst had a pyramid-shaped head with thick glasses perched awkwardly on its face.

The analyst looked up. “Well, if it isn’t Officer Shinku. What’s the catch today?” Said sarcastically.

Shinku wasted no time. “You’re one of the crime analysts, correct?”

“Absolutely. I think that’s what I am,” the analyst replied, leaning back in its chair.

Shinku requested. “Once a report is registered into the outstanding cases database, who can edit them?”

The analyst tilted its head, pondering. “Not even my managers can touch data that sensitive. Only the twelve district supervisors and Roton have that level of access.”

“The supervisors?” Shinku repeated, his tone sharpening. “Thank you.”

Before the analyst could respond, Shinku was already rushing out. The analyst watched him go, muttering, “I’m going to lunch.”

Back at his apartment, Shinku’s focus intensified. He worked at his computer, files scrolled across the screen.

“Roton’s too transparent to be behind this,” Shinku said, eliminating him from suspicion. “That leaves the twelve supervisors.”

“Officer Prog, Stifon, Charcuterie, Texas, Binar, Hellim, Blick, Wireframe, Ascii, Tera, Heighland, and Buzzt.”

He categorized them by species—Hybrid, Human, or Computer—and their current activities. “Ascii, Buzzt, Stifon, and Texas are on leave. They wouldn’t have access to work computers during that time. That eliminates them.”

Shinku crossed out more names. “Charcuterie and Heighland don’t work near the prefectures where the ‘Takuza’ cases are reported. Improbable. Hellim and Blick are openly pro-human, so they’re also unlikely. That leaves five: Prog, Wireframe, Tera, and Binar...”

Shinku paused. “Even Binar isn’t safe from suspicion.”

His eyes were intense. “Whoever is behind this knows that framing a former officer-turned-criminal would throw off investigators. It’s a perfect smokescreen. They might even be banking on the possibility that Takuza actually escaped, making their reports seem plausible.“

“They know Takuza would throw off an investigation, but I know the reports don’t align. I have an even greater lead now. I’ll call Ukiri.”

The next morning came. Shinku sat on the couch, idly flipping through channels, Screw nestled comfortably on his lap.

The TV displayed various segments: political content, weather updates, and even a colorful advertisement for the upcoming election between Vitron and Gemu. The polls were opening in two weeks, and every network seemed to be buzzing with the news.

Shinku’s fingers hovered over the remote, disinterested, until he flipped to a local news channel.

The image froze him in place.

A restaurant engulfed in flames. Smoke billowing into the sky. Rescue crews scrambling in the wreckage.

His grip slackened, and the remote slipped from his hand, clattering onto the floor. His voice came out as a whisper, almost drowned by the blaring TV.

“No…”

The news anchor’s voice pierced through the haze of his thoughts.

“We have devastating news this morning from District 3. Yesterday afternoon, The Big Fish, a newly opened all-human restaurant franchise, erupted in flames. The tragedy has resulted in the deaths of 343 humans… and one computer—being the restaurant itself.”

Shinku‘s eyes widened. The scene replayed in slow motion, the charred remains of the building eerily similar to a memory that now consumed him.

He saw the sleek design of Chips and Chomps, its inviting structure, and the warm glow of its neon sign. A restaurant now mirrored in the smoldering ruins displayed on the news.

“That’s…!” Shinku’s voice trembled.

This wasn’t just a coincidence. Something far more sinister was at play.

The sound of Shinku’s car roared through the streets as he sped toward the office in his suit. His mind was anything but composed.

“Binar…” he growled under his breath, his eyes narrowing as he recalled the flames consuming The Big Fish.

Upon entering, officers moved about, unaware of Shinku’s growing fury. He viewed his digi, its screen lighting up as it displayed a flood of notifications.

One report caught him—a detailed analysis from the crime team. He scanned the piecing together the patterns. His grip on the device tightened. Report after report of virus-related hybrid deaths poured in, their numbers climbing exponentially.

“Hybrids…” Shinku muttered, scrolling through the grim statistics. “The deaths are skyrocketing.”

In the locker room, Shinku found his team. Bontly leaned against a locker, Tackle was getting ready, and Johe sat, scrolling through his own digi.

“Where’s Binar?!” Shinku demanded, his voice sharp and cutting.

Bontly was startled. “H-He’s in the deployment hangar!.”

“Okay!” Shinku barked, already turning to leave.

Johe watched him go. “Talk about angry.”

Tackle was perceptive. “Something’s wrong.”

Shinku sprinted through the corridors, his footsteps echoing as he approached the hangar. Binar was crouched by a vehicle, tightening bolts on one of the patrol units.

“BINAR!” Shinku’s voice boomed, cutting through the din.

Binar glanced up, his expression unreadable as he stood to meet Shinku’s fiery gaze.

“Well, well,” Binar said with a smirk, wiping oil from his hands. “You’ve shown face again.”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Shinku snapped, shoving his phone forward to display the news footage. “Tell me why I woke up this morning to THIS on my television!”

Binar leaned closer. The charred remains of The Big Fish filled the screen, the devastation undeniable.

“And what’s the problem?” Binar asked, his tone calm but edged with annoyance. “This happened in District 3. I’m confused.”

“Stop acting like a fool!” Shinku growled. “Tell me why the restaurant you said would be going to prison somehow opened up shop under a new name… only to kill itself and over 300 humans inside!”

Binar frowned. “This is a misunderstanding. He could have escaped—”

“You said,” Shinku interrupted, his voice trembling with anger, “that he would be in prison! And here we are—with the murder of 300 people on his record!”

Binar’s expression hardened. “I assure you, that’s what happened.”

Shinku glared at him and without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the hangar, the sound of his footsteps fading into the distance.

The rest of the group approached from the opposite direction, catching a glimpse of Shinku as he disappeared down the corridor.

“What’s going on?” Johe asked.

Tackle shook her head. “Something’s really wrong.”

Shinku ran, his thoughts spiraling into chaos. Flashes of Binar’s actions surfaced—memories of Binar interacting with the evidence, slipping items into his pocket instead of properly securing them. The image of Kirria’s lifeless body haunted him.

His breathing hitched.

“This doesn’t add up,” he thought, fear mixing with his anger. “If Binar’s behind this… if he’s been manipulating the evidence…”

The weight of the realization threatened to crush him. For the first time, Shinku wasn’t just angry—he was terrified.