Chapter 6 - Smiles And Sirens

I walked the detainee to the patrol car and helped him into the backseat. After closing the door, I got into the driver’s seat and started the engine, pulling away from the festival noise.

“Aye, Nii-chan,” the guy muttered. “If I give you some yen, maybe you can forget about all this, huh?”

“It’s Officer Kuroda, thank you. And with your track record? I doubt you could afford the bribe.”

“C’mon! I told ‘em I’d pay next game. I'd have doubled it by tomorrow!”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

He leaned forward. “Alright, alright… real talk. I’m a secret undercover cop! My name’s Renji and I'm actually cracking down on illegal gambling operations. So... uh, you gonna let me go now?”

Renji was clearly a little intoxicated.

I stared at him through the rearview mirror, speechless at this pathetic performance. “You done?”

We arrived at the kōban shortly afterward, and I parked out front. I stepped out of the car and opened the back door.

“Out,” I said flatly.

The man groaned as he stumbled out, still grumbling under his breath. I guided him inside, nudging the door open with my foot.

I led Renji to the holding cell and locked it with a click.

He didn’t sit.

Just stood there, fingers twitching at his sides.

Then he turned and slammed his fists against the bars which made me jump.

His whole demeanor shifted.

His face was pale now — eyes wide, lips trembling.

“They’re watching,” he muttered.

I paused.

“…What?”

His gaze darted past me, like someone else was in the room.

 “I’ve been cursed,” he whispered, shaking his head.

“This is punishment. This is what I get.”

His voice cracked.

“Every time I close my eyes, they’re there. Staring. Waiting.”

He stumbled back from the bars, dragging both hands down his face.

Then collapsed onto the bench, curling into himself.

Mumbling.

I didn’t say anything. 

Just shut the door behind me.

As I turned to leave, something felt… wrong.

The kōban was quiet — only the soft hum of the ceiling light and the faint chirp of crickets outside. But the room wasn’t how we left it.

Hayato’s desk drawer was open, papers sticking out at odd angles. His doodles — the ones of Takeda with the exaggerated forehead — were crumpled on the floor like someone had brushed them aside in a hurry.

And the patrol log — the thick, leather-bound book we used every day — was lying face-down on the floor near the filing cabinet.

I frowned.

We never left it like that. And Takeda… as lazy as he is, he never forgets to close up.

I crouched down and picked up the log, flipping it open.

The last entry was mine — before the festival shift.

Nothing else has been written since.

BANG!

A single gunshot.

Sharp. Close. Muffled by the walls — but unmistakable.

It came from the holding cell.