Chapter 50

Early December in Tokyo. A light snow dusts the city, and a thin skin of ice glazes the mouth of the Tama River.

Watanabe Shun shoulders his way into Terminal 2 of Haneda Airport. The arrival gate is a solid wall of people. He clutches a hand-written pick-up sign and cranes his neck at the flight board. The plane hasn't landed yet—good. He exhales.

Eight months have passed since the boss was demoted, and life at the koban has been hell.

Originally only Kazama Takusai got busted down, but Watanabe—who prides himself on having the loyalty of a Sengoku-era samurai like Tachibana Muneshige—couldn't abandon his captain. He filed for a transfer the same day and volunteered to serve as a patrol officer under him.

Had he known why Headquarters wanted Kazama at the Sugamo Station koban, he might have thought twice.

The place is the crossroads of four bustling shopping districts and the only exit for a warren of old apartment blocks. A zone that size should have two or three koban—history says Sugamo gets one.

One koban, three officers including the station chief, policing roughly twenty thousand residents plus undocumented migrants. Following procedure is impossible; only Kazama's bulldozer style keeps the lid on.

Watanabe's feet barely touch the ground; four hours of sleep is a luxury. Every dawn he wakes up wanting to die, convinced he's living in purgatory.

But the nightmare is almost over. Word came down: the top two graduates of the academy are being assigned here.

Kazama took one look at the orders and sulked for a week. Watanabe didn't ask why. He just grabbed the sign the chief had scrawled and sprinted to the airport.

"Let's see..."

He flips the sign over. The names look familiar. A male and a female officer—so "Fushimi Tamako" must be the woman... but why is there a "Minamoto Shika"? It sounds like some flowery pen-name—way too pretty for a guy.

Please, not a pair of theory nerds. He doesn't have time to baby fragile hothouse flowers.

Then again, forging raw recruits into real cops could be satisfying. One day, under the cherry trees, they'll clutch his hand, tears streaming: "Thank you for everything, Senior! I'll never forget your kindness!" And he'll wave them off with a cool "Take care, now."

His private movie is still rolling when the loudspeaker crackles: flight landed.

The crowd surges. Watanabe staggers, his carefully sculpted pompadour tilting like a broken antenna.

"Quit shoving! Back off!" He shields his hair with both hands. "Make way for me!"

Someone elbows him in the ribs. He yelps, curses, earns two kicks in reply.

He wore his best crocodile loafers for the occasion. When the wave spits him out, the shoes are grey with footprints, his trench-coat collar is torn, and a shirt button is missing.

Worst of all: the perfect, towering, invincible crest of hair has split like a snapped flagpole and now droops like overcooked ramen.

Unforgivable!

"Nobody move! Police—"

He's reaching for his badge when the crowd freezes. They turn as one—inked yakuza in flash suits, faces mean, a scarred man at the front clicking his tongue. "Hah? Picking someone up is a crime now? Watch where you're going, dumbass!"

Yakuza. The scarred one is probably a shatei—here to meet their boss.

Watanabe's blood is up. If the legendary swordsman Yagyu Jubei could take on a dozen samurai, then Watanabe Shun, armed with a pick-up sign, can handle some wannabe gangsters.

"You assaulted an officer! Whoever kicked me—step forward and march to the station!"

The scarred man sizes him up. They're only here to collect their lieutenant; no need for drama. He snorts and offers a way out: "Our mistake, Officer. If you're in a hurry, after you."

He overestimates Watanabe's common sense. The lone cop charges, slams the sign onto the yakuza's forehead, and grabs him by the lapels.

"Like hell I'm letting you off with a sorry!"

Now the scarred man has no choice—lose face or fight. He forgets the boss's order to stay low and signals his boys. Two dozen fists close in.

Meanwhile, Fushimi Shika and Minamoto Tamako follow the signs to baggage claim. Tamako coos at everything—airplanes, the terminal, the ocean view—while Shika checks his watch.

"How many times are you going to ask? They'll be at the exit."

"I just don't want you getting lost in Tokyo," Tamako mutters, pink suitcase rattling, rabbit plushie clutched to her chest.

Heads turn—siblings on vacation? A stylish couple?

From twenty meters away they hear shouting. Tamako rises on tiptoes. A dense circle has formed around the gate.

Then a scream slices the air, raw and terrified. Panic ripples outward like dominoes. Every syllable is crystal clear:

"Murder! A cop's been killed!"