Chapter 7 - Murder

I broke into a run.

Boots slamming the wood. Rounding the hallway.

The cell door was already wide open.

Renji was slumped on the floor, legs twisted awkwardly beneath him.

His head was tilted back against the wall — or what was left of it.

A thick splash of blood painted the wall behind him. Bone fragments. Pink tissue. A hollow cavity where half his skull used to be.

One of his eyes was gone — just… gone — replaced by a glistening mess of red pulp. The other eye stared upward, wide and glassy, frozen in a look of pure terror.

A strange noise escaped his throat — a gurgling wheeze that didn’t even sound human — and then stopped.

I couldn’t move.

My breath caught. My stomach churned.

He was dead.

But that wasn’t possible.

He’d been alone.

The cell was locked when I left.

There was only one hallway in or out. No one had passed me.

Unless… someone had already been here. Hiding. Waiting.

Then it hit me — Takeda kept an emergency firearm in his desk drawer. A precaution. One we seldom touched.

Heart pounding, I ran back to the front room. The drawer was shut.

I yanked it open.

Empty.

The pistol… Gone…

“...Fuck.”

I immediately ran into my car, heart thudding, and grabbed my radio to call Takeda.

“Takeda! Do you read?”

Static.

I tried again. “Takeda-san, it’s Sora… respond!”

A few seconds passed.

“What is it? I’m trying to have a smoke.” his voice finally crackled through.

“I need backup. Immediately,” I said, voice trembling.

“If it’s another neighborhood brawl, handle it yourself. I’m not your babysitter,” he grumbled.

“BODY AT THE KOBAN!! HE’S BEEN SHOT!!!” I shouted, practically into the mic.

“Mendō da na… fine. But if you're just making an excuse to ditch duty, you’re pulling double shifts.”

I gritted my teeth and waited for Takeda.

Around 20 minutes later I heard the sirens.

“Finally.”

Takeda stepped out of the patrol car, still brushing ash from his fingers.

“I swear, Kuroda… this better not be a goddamn joke,” he muttered, stomping up the steps.

“I’m not joking.”

“Yeah, well, it wouldn’t be the first time someone exaggerated a drunken faint or two-day-old vomit in the cell.”

I didn’t answer. Just opened the hallway door and stepped aside.

Takeda walked past me, grumbling under his breath.

He made it about halfway to the cell before he stopped.

And froze.

Dead silent.

He stared into the holding cell, his back stiff, unmoving.

“…Shit,” he muttered, voice low. All the irritation drained out of him.

I stepped up beside him.

Renji’s body was still there.

Still twisted. Still mangled. Still very dead.

Takeda blinked slowly, then muttered again — more to himself than to me.

“Looks like… we’ve got a real case on our hands.”