Chapter 51

The moment she heard there was a case, the cowlick on Tamako's head stood straight up.

Before she could open her mouth, Fushimi Shika cut her off. "No."

"What do you mean, no?" Tamako blinked.

"You're about to stick your nose in again, aren't you?" He tucked both hands into his sleeves, looking utterly unbothered. "We're supposed to report to the koban today. We don't have the luxury. Do you really want to be late on your very first day?"

"B-but we're full-fledged officers now! If something happens right in front of us, how can we just ignore it?" Tamako protested.

"Even if something did happen, it falls under the local patrol's jurisdiction. Every department has its own beat. You haven't even clocked in yet and you're already reaching into somebody else's patch—Officer Tamako, that's quite the power trip." Fushimi's voice was flat.

"I... guess you're right..."

They walked and argued while airport security tried to push the crowd back. Tamako took the chance to sneak a few glances.

A scar-faced man lay on the ground, eyes wide open, drenched in blood, chest utterly still—clearly dead.

The greeters and the guards were scuffling. They had seized a man whose hair split into two unfortunate forks, insisting he was the killer and they were taking him away for some private retribution.

Security blocked them, claiming the police would arrive any second and ordering them to stay put.

The headless Yakuza crew refused to listen. Cops always shielded other cops, they shouted; if they handed the guy over, how would they avenge their boss?

"Hey, that guy looks familiar," Tamako said, tugging Fushimi's sleeve.

Fushimi glanced over and recognized Watanabe Shun. He also noticed the battered welcome sign at his feet. The character for "Shika" was missing; only "Fushimi Tamako" remained.

"..."

A bad feeling settled in his gut.

He stepped forward, and after a brief exchange confirmed the sign had indeed been brought by Watanabe Shun. Fushimi's face went as bland as an alpaca's—equal parts stoic and silently pained.

"Don't tell me the senior who came to pick us up got dragged into a murder case?"

Tamako didn't sound worried in the least; if anything, she sounded eager. "As juniors, shouldn't we lend a hand?"

The instant the words left her mouth, system subtitles popped up again in front of Fushimi.

[Criminal Request Triggered]

[Details: Help Senior Watanabe Shun shake off suspicion of murder.]

[Reward: Skill Point ×1]

Fushimi had already figured out this system's quirks. "Helping him shake off suspicion" didn't necessarily mean "he didn't kill anyone." If the senior had actually done it, how exactly was he supposed to "shake it off"? He stared at the bridge of his nose and told himself, I will not coexist with evil—but if no one catches you, it's not a crime.

Two weeks earlier, the verdict on the Daisetsuzan shooting had come down: suicide, as expected. The lab report stated the "murder weapon" was not Shirata Masahiro's service pistol.

The day the case closed, Shirata felt a boulder lift from his chest. He took leave, returned to his hometown, and drank until dawn at Shiro Izakaya.

That same day, Fushimi received his task reward—tacit confirmation that "fabricating evidence to erase guilt" was a valid path.

With a thought, he dismissed the task bar. "Fine. Whatever you want."

"Yay!"

Tamako was practically bouncing. The Reasoning Squad was back in action!

Dragging her suitcase, she scurried over on tiptoe to watch. For all her bravado about conquering her fear of corpses, she was still shy around living strangers unless she'd slipped into "detective mode."

Fushimi couldn't stand it. He sighed, stepped forward, and produced his police ID, pinching the rank line between two fingers so it flashed naturally in front of everyone. "Police. What's going on?"

Seeing the badge, the guard mistook him for a detective and rattled off the whole story. Watanabe Shun was handcuffed to a railing, beaten so badly his face looked like a trampled eggplant—clearly unconscious.

The surrounding gang members took Fushimi's arrival as support. They surged forward; the blonde one grabbed his collar.

"Hey, hey! What d'you think you're doing? Gonna cover for your buddy? All you damn mappo are the same!"

"Mappo" was their mangled take on "mappo," the slur hoodlums used for cops—roughly "pig-dog" or "filth."

Fushimi didn't bother trading insults. He turned his face away. "Bring me whoever's in charge."

"Don't look down on us! You know damn well our boss is—"

"You're here for a pickup, right?" Fushimi cut in. "So where's the person you came to meet?"

"Uh..."

The blonde froze. Only now did they remember, swiveling their heads until every gaze locked on a businessman in the crowd.

The man wore rimless glasses, carried a briefcase, and sported a navy suit. He looked less like a yakuza boss and more like a mid-level manager.

"Boss!" The blonde bowed; the rest followed suit.

The businessman frowned. He'd planned to slip away quietly once the mess blew over, but these idiots had dragged him into the spotlight.

"Pleased to meet you," he said, producing a business card. "Satake Gen, financial consultant. I work for a perfectly legitimate firm."

Right—if it were truly legitimate, you wouldn't need to stress that in front of the police.

Fushimi glanced at the card long enough to confirm pronunciation, then said, "Boss Sasuke, keep your men in line. Don't obstruct the investigation."

"I refuse," Satake replied, adjusting his glasses. "I don't know these people, so I can hardly order them about."

The blonde nodded vigorously. "Exactly! We don't even know the boss!"

"..."

Veins throbbed on Satake's forehead. He forced a smile. "No idea what he's talking about."

With subordinates like these, the yakuza's future is bright—maybe they should franchise bubble-tea shops instead.

Fushimi didn't care whether Satake played dumb. He'd called the boss over only to borrow a scrap of authority for two sentences.

"Gentlemen," he said, clapping for attention. "An eye for an eye, a debt for a debt—that's fair. No argument there."

"Now you're talking sense," the blonde chimed in.

Satake shot him a glare; the man shut up instantly.

"To let the dead rest in peace, let me ask: did any of you actually see him kill your boss? Eyewitness testimony carries weight in court." His tone sharpened. "If no one saw it, you might have the wrong man. Do you want your boss's ghost cursing you? Do you want the real killer laughing at your stupidity? So—who here actually witnessed the murder? Step forward."

The men exchanged glances, whispering among themselves.

"You were up front—did you see it?"

"Nah... you?"

"Wait, nobody saw it?"

After a round of questions, cooler heads prevailed. One hand rose: "When the boss died, Watanabe had already been knocked out cold."

"..."

"Then... who the hell did kill him?"