It was dark, and it smelled like mold. Nishikido Ryo liked it like this. It was fitting that his office should be decaying, considering that he was fighting a losing battle against all the corruption, all the depravities on every corner of the street outside in the real world. And he would have given up, would have handed in his badge and Glock if it wasn’t for his sister. Michiko whose life was snuffed out in that brutal way. Nobody deserved that, least of all Michiko, who was the good one, the pretty one. The one he would have given his life to protect and yet failed abysmally for all the accolades heaped on him as one of the best in the criminal division. He failed her and for the last two years he had been doing everything he could to atone for his mistakes, making sure that every criminal he caught and hauled into jail was an offering to the memories of Michiko he held so dear.

He settled himself into his chair, and he looked at the framed photograph of Michiko against the background of bursting flora in the middle of Spring. It was the only sentimental thing he could afford in this dimly-lit hellhole of an office, the only luxury he allowed himself because it reminded him that he used to be human. He lifted the framed photograph close as his thumb stroked idly over Michiko’s smile. Then there was a sharp rap on the door and Ryo placed the framed photograph down, on the right side of his desk, right back at the exact spot.

His desk was a mess, piled with files of unsolved cases people had long forgotten about and styrofoam cups of unfinished coffee but the right side was always tidy. The right side was a place only reserved for the likes of Nishikido Michiko who sat there with all the grace of a princess. No one ever touched that picture. The last rookie who did, was transferred to another county and Ryo didn’t even have to say a single word. In the Tokyo Major Crime Division, Nishikido Ryo’s word was the law, the bible, the rule that everyone adhered to. He had once handed in his resignation letter and in that single day alone, the Investigations Commander and Chief made four trips to that small, dingy office of Nishikido’s. Everyone was eavesdropping, and it sounded like a war inside. Shouts, accusations, placating voices and the world-weariness of men who had seen too much of what evil atrocities men could do, spurred on by rage.

In the end, Nishikido won, as he always did. No one really knew how they got him to stay, what bargain and terms were exchanged over that table but one thing they realized was that Nishikido was staying, even if it meant they had to sacrifice a brash, cocky rookie. Or two.

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Uchi Hiroki steepled his fingers at his chin, poring over the stack of files in front of him. The whole room had the smell of aged papers, cigarette smoke and stale coffee. The tables with folders piled haphazardly on them made the cramped confines of the office look like a war-torn zone. Not pretty, but it was home. Or as close to it as anything was going to get.

Sitting opposite him with all the lazy countenance of a journalist without any major scoop in two months and scraping by on meager wages was Yokoyama Yu. Yoko drew in the cigarette smoke with a hiss of pleasure. Uchi didn’t smoke. He figured with the number of smokers surrounding him, he was going to die of lung cancer one day so why bother? Besides he could save the money and take pleasure in inhaling the second-hand smoke.

Uchi had learnt to thrive on small comforts. Being a journalist of a small publishing agency wasn’t exactly what he had in mind when he told his mother he was leaving Kamakura for Tokyo to make it big. Well he was still trying, because it was mighty hard when your interview subjects were limited to another old lady living past the age of hundred or reporting on the latest onsen hotspot. He needed a scoop, and fast. Not just any scoop, but an exclusive, mind-blowing one. Something that would scream at you from bolded headlines on the front page, something that was going to grab everyone’s attention and seize the country by storm.

The problem was where was he going to find such a  piece?

“God Yoko turn up the heater will you?” He grumbled absent-mindedly as he looked through the old archives of newspapers, paying special attention to the headlines. There was a  grunt from Yoko.

“Electricity costs, Uchi. Why don’t you just put your hands around the cup of coffee on your table?” Yoko continued puffing on his cigarette, seemingly on a crusade to end his life early.

Uchi placed one palm around the mug of coffee. The coffee had long gone lukewarm and it looked like tar. It probably only tasted slightly better, and Uchi shot a dirty look at Yoko who shrugged negligently and Uchi had to resist the urge to tell Yoko to shove his whole stash of cigarettes up his ass.

Uchi sniffed as he rubbed the back of his hand across his runny nose. There was no use complaining. He could bitch about it all he wanted and the office would still be doing their best to conserve electricity. Get a scoop, Yoko would say. Get a scoop and you can have all the heat you want.

Uchi had to bite back on the remark that once he got his scoop, Yoko could have the lousy heaters in this stinking office to himself. He was uprooting and moving to the greener pastures of the big publishing houses. He propped his head on his hand, his eyelids getting heavier before he saw a grainy picture of a man, shielding his face from the glare of the intrusive cameras. Dark cassock eyes that matched the ebony black of the coat billowing around him. This story had been all the rage two years ago. Everybody loved a hero but what the public loved more, was a fallen, tortured hero. And if there was any fitting candidate for that title, Nishikido Ryo, leading investigator of Tokyo Major Crime Division was the one.

And back in the labyrinthian corridors in the Tokyo Major Crime Unit, Uchi Hiroki’s wish was about to come true as the postman entered Nishikido Ryo’s office, with a bulky envelop in his hand.