Detective Shun

The school reopened on Monday.

Akira stopped saying Kana out loud. He kept his answers vague when questioned by the police or when other students interrogated him. “I had a bad feeling.” Is all he replied.

At lunch, Aira pulled him toward the courtyard.

“You can’t keep isolating,” she said.

She introduced him to her friends. Hoshino Rin. Kudo Hayate. Tachibana Shinobu.

“And Shinobu’s brother is a detective,” Hayate added.

Akira filed that away. Detective. Useful.

“Are you coming Friday?” Aira asked. “Church youth group.”

Akira hesitated. Gatherings meant people. Potential targets. “I’ll come.”

While they ate, Aira watched a loud girl across the courtyard, Fujita Miki, who was laughing with a group.

“She’s nice,” Aira said, sipping her drink. “A bit loud though.”

Akira glanced at her. “You’re loud.”

“I’m expressive,” Aira corrected, checking her reflection in her phone screen. She adjusted her bangs with a critical frown. “Miki is just… broadcasting. There’s a difference.”

It was a small moment of vanity. A flicker of territorial instinct. She liked being the sun in the room, even if she pretended she didn’t notice the gravity.

Friday came. The church was small.

Akira met more students. He tried to catalogue them, but the names blurred.

He watched dynamics. Who stood alone? Who clung to someone?

One girl caught his attention. Fujita Miki. She was impossible to ignore.

If someone were erasing people… would they target the quiet? Or the visible?

At one point, Miki plopped down beside him. “You’re the body-finder, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t look scared.”

He shrugged.

Later that night, Shinobu lingered. “My brother mentioned something. They can’t find records for the girl you found. It’s like she never existed.”

Akira nodded slowly.

He was counting. Four victims. Kana was one. Aira was somewhere in the sequence.

He couldn’t win by remembering everyone. He had to understand the pattern.

And he had to do it quietly.

Detective Tachibana Shun woke at 5:12 a. m.

He didn’t use an alarm.

Routine kept the world predictable. Predictability kept things from slipping through cracks.

He sat up immediately. No scrolling. No lingering.

Bathroom light on. Cold water. Quick shave. Uniform pressed the night before.

In the kitchen, he brewed coffee and reviewed overnight reports on his phone.

Noise complaint. Convenience store shoplifting. Drunk altercation near the station.

Nothing severe. He preferred days that began quietly.

At 6:03 a. m., his bedroom door opened without knocking.

“You’re up,” Shinobu said.

“I am,” he replied.

She stood there in her school uniform, hair tied neatly back.

“You don’t have to drive me,” she said.

“I know.”

He grabbed his keys. They both understood the ritual.

The patrol vehicle sat outside their apartment like it didn’t belong in a residential complex. He did not use it for convenience. He used it for visibility.

Deterrence mattered.

The drive to school was uneventful. Shun scanned intersections automatically. Mirrors. Side streets. Body language of pedestrians.

Shinobu noticed, as she always did.

“You know,” she said lightly, “if someone was planning to attack me, they probably wouldn’t do it while I’m sitting in a police car.”

“You’d be surprised,” he replied calmly.

She sighed. “You’re impossible.”

He didn’t deny it.

He slowed near the school gates. Students clustered in groups, half-awake, half-performing confidence. Shun let his eyes move across them in an unconscious sweep.

Nothing unusual.

He stopped the car.

“Text me after last period.”

“I will.”

“And if anyone—”

“I know.”

She stepped out. He waited until she passed through the gates before pulling away.

He told himself it was habit. Not anxiety.

The precinct at 7:10 a. m. was louder than his apartment but still manageable.

Desks cluttered with files. Coffee brewing somewhere too strong. Officers exchanging tired jokes.

Shun placed his bag down and opened his case log.

Current assignments: Follow-up on a burglary. Interview in a domestic dispute. Paperwork backlog from traffic case.

Normal.

He worked methodically.

By 8:30 a. m., he had already visited the burglary site. No forced entry. Likely known acquaintance. He left notes for patrol to canvass neighbors.

By 9:45 a. m., he was back at his desk reviewing traffic footage from a minor collision.

His colleague, Detective Moriyama, leaned back in his chair nearby.

“You ever sleep?” Moriyama asked.

“Efficiently,” Shun replied without looking up.

Moriyama chuckled. “You’re going to burn out before you make senior.”

Shun finished typing and closed the file. “I don’t intend to burn out.”

“That’s what they all say.”

Shun stood to grab more coffee.

Moriyama smirked. “Your sister doing okay?”

“She’s fine.”

“You’re going to scare off every boy in that school.”

“That’s the goal.”

Moriyama laughed. “There it is.”

Shun ignored him. He didn’t talk about his sister often. But when he did, the edge showed.

He returned to his desk and opened the domestic case file.

At 11:38 a. m., the precinct phone rang with a tone that cut through normal chatter.

Not routine. Urgent.

The dispatcher’s voice was sharp.

“Unidentified female. High school theatre. Possible homicide.”

The room shifted instantly.

Shun was already standing. “What school?”

The answer tightened something in his chest. The same one his sister attended.

He moved.

By the time Shun arrived, patrol had secured the exterior. Students were being guided away from the theatre wing. Teachers trying to maintain order.

He scanned faces automatically. He saw fear. Confusion. He did not see Shinobu.

Good.

Inside, the theatre air was stale. He ducked under the tape. An officer gestured toward the stairwell.

Shun approached carefully.

The body was beneath the structure. Neatly placed. Too neatly. No obvious blood pooling. No signs of frantic struggle nearby.

He crouched slightly, studying without touching.

Young. Fourteen or fifteen. Uniform intact. Hands positioned deliberately.

He stood slowly.

“ID?” he asked.

The officer shook his head. “School’s checking records.”

“Check faster.”

“They’re saying they don’t see a student by that name.”

Shun looked up sharply. “What name?”

“Kisaragi Kana.”

The name meant nothing to him. Yet.

“Attendance sheet?” Shun asked.

“Administration says they’re verifying.”

Shun stepped outside and made the call himself.

“I need full enrollment logs,” he said evenly. “Current and archived.”

The administrative clerk hesitated. “It might take time—”

“It won’t.”

He ended the call. He didn’t like delays on things that should be immediate.

Behind him, Moriyama arrived, slightly out of breath. “Hell of a first big one for you,” Moriyama muttered.

Shun ignored the comment.

Instead, he scanned the hallway again. His gaze landed briefly on a boy speaking to another officer.

Transfer student, someone said. Found the body.

Shun made a mental note. He would speak to him later. Not here. Not in front of half the school.

By 1:15 p. m., preliminary database results came in.

Shun stared at the screen.

No current enrollment under Kisaragi Kana. No digital trace of recent transfer. No prior school history in the municipal archive.

He refreshed. Same result.

Moriyama leaned against his desk. “What’s the issue?”

“She’s not in the system.”

Moriyama shrugged. “Clerical delay.”

“Not in backups either.”

“System glitch.”

Shun didn’t look away from the screen. “Glitches leave logs,” he said quietly.

Moriyama chuckled lightly. “You’re looking too deep.”

Shun finally turned. “She attended classes. Teachers called her name.”

“Did they?” Moriyama replied casually.

The question lingered.

Shun held his colleague’s gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Then looked back at the screen.

Maybe it was paperwork. Maybe the transfer hadn’t been processed. Maybe someone misheard.

Maybe.

He didn’t like maybes.

That evening, at dinner, Shinobu spoke casually.

“Did you know her?” Shun asked

She shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so.”

“Think?”

“She might’ve been in another class.”

He nodded once.

But as he lay in bed later that night, eyes open in the dark, the theatre image replayed.

Placement. Control. Missing records. A student who found the body because of a “bad feeling.”

He did not jump to conspiracy. He did not accuse.

But he filed the anomaly carefully.

Because small inconsistencies had a way of revealing larger truths.

And Detective Tachibana Shun did not ignore inconsistencies.