Chapter 57

The gunshot sent Tamako jumping half out of her skin; the revolver nearly slipped from her fingers.

The crack had come from outside. She shoved the door open in a panic and almost head-butted Fushimi Shika, who was poking his own head out at the same time.

"Was that you?" he asked.

"Of course not! Senior Kazama hasn't issued ammo yet!" she blurted. "Something's wrong—there's been a shooting in the street!"

"Oh."

He started to pull back and shut the door. Tamako lunged, wedging her foot in the gap. "You're not bailing! A koban patrol officer can't just ignore a shooting!"

"It's not even our shift..."

"Patrol is a 24/7 job! If a crime happens, you respond, shift or no shift!" She grabbed his sleeve.

Fushimi, already in sheep-print pajamas and ready for a glorious nap, was in no mood. "Senior Kazama didn't say 'roll out,' so why the rush? And our guns are empty—going out there is suicide. For 150,000 yen a month you want me to fistfight gangsters bare-handed?"

Tamako hesitated; he had a point. Yet she couldn't stomach doing nothing. After a brief civil war in her head, she thundered down the stairs and shook Senior Kazama awake.

"What do we do if there's a shooting?"

"You man the counter," he mumbled without removing his eye mask. "If someone reports it, follow procedure—stuff they drilled into you at the academy. If no one shows, go back to bed. Night patrol runs till dawn; you'll need the rest."

And with that, he reclined his deck chair and went back to sleep.

That's it? We're not going out? Aren't we supposed to—

Tamako couldn't shake the feeling that koban work was nothing like the brochure. She stationed herself at the front desk and stared at the locked glass doors. How can anyone file a report if we're shut? What if a victim crawls up the steps and finds the door barred?

She snatched the keys from the wall and pushed the door open.

Click. A hand clamped around her ankle.

Tamako's heart leapt into her throat. She looked down: a man lay sprawled on the ground, face wrapped in gauze, wrinkled trench coat soaked with grime.

"E-excuse me, sir—do—do you need help?" Her teeth chattered so hard she almost bit her tongue.

The man tilted his head, blinking up at her. For a second he thought an angel had come to collect him—then he spotted the uniform. "Ah! You're the rookie?"

Tamako recognized him too. "Officer Watanabe Shun!" She snapped a textbook salute. "I'm terribly sorry I left you at the airport! Patrol Officer Minamoto Tamako reporting for duty—please advise!"

The compliment worked like a shot of espresso. Watanabe vaulted to his feet, ripped the gauze off his scalp, and whipped out hair gel. In three quick spikes he sculpted his hair into a gravity-defying pompadour.

"All right! A scratch won't slow me down. Word is you cracked the airport murder—nice work! Even the detectives at HQ are talking about the new girl."

From the back office came Kazama's growl: "Pipe down! You were supposed to pick them up, not show up a day late and brag! Three pages of self-criticism—now!"

"Boss, cut me some slack in front of the rookie..."

"Move it!"

"Yes, sir."

Watanabe trudged upstairs. He rapped on Fushimi's door to say hello, but no answer—probably asleep—and went to his own room.

Fushimi wasn't asleep. He was nose-to-window, hoping for front-row seats to a yakuza shoot-out. That was the entire reason he'd joined the force: free action movies! His to-do list was simple—slack off, spectate, and quietly collect a paycheck.

Unfortunately, the street was empty; the gunshot must have come from an apartment block. Crows on the power line didn't even flinch—they were used to the occasional pop.

"Tch, boring."

He closed the window and considered scavenging spent casings to hand-load a few rounds. Official ammo was a bureaucratic nightmare—requisition forms, incident reports, a signed essay on why you needed to fire the shot. Better to roll his own and keep the department's bullets as backup.

Being a cop is just business; you always keep two sets of books.

He changed out of pajamas, grabbed his wallet, and made up a story about needing toiletries. A quick tour of the fireworks shop and the hardware store—purchases postponed until he could pick up usable brass on some future call.

By the time he returned with a bag of shampoo and toothpaste, dusk had draped the street in indigo. Apartment windows flickered to life—cool white, warm yellow, and the occasional lurid purple or red that needed no explanation.

Shift started at 1800 hours. In summer they'd push it to 1900 or even 2000, working straight through till 0600. Anything past eight hours counted as overtime, with night differential and hazard pay tacked on.

That's why Sugamo's take-home was triple other kobans: a base of 150,000 yen plus another 400,000 after deductions, not counting allowances. Fifty-five grand a month—solid middle-class money.

You get what you pay for. One look at Kazama's haggard face told the story: the man was literally trading years of life for yen.

Before their demotion, the station chief had been ready to coast into retirement. Then Kazama's conscience dragged the whole crew into overtime hell.

After microwaving convenience-store bento, the four of them suited up.

"First night, you two stick together," Kazama said, gulping an energy shot until his cheeks flushed. "Get to know the beat. If trouble pops, don't play hero—protect yourselves first, call for backup, no macho nonsense... Got it?"

"Yes, sir!" Tamako answered with parade-ground snap; Fushimi managed a limp salute.

No ceremony, no rousing speech—just another shift at Sugamo Station Koban.

Kazama watched them leave, then said quietly, "Watanabe, tail them. Make sure they don't get themselves killed."

"You sure you can handle the desk alone, boss?"

"Less talk, more walk!"

"Roger that."