Chapter 2: Routine Patrols and Sketch Lines
"I hate everything."
The bathroom tiles were cold against my cheek, which was somehow both comforting and miserable. My stomach twisted again, reminding me why drinking three cups of coffee on an empty stomach was a terrible idea. Even if it was the best coffee I'd ever tasted.
"Stupid," I groaned, pushing myself up. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."
The mirror showed exactly what I felt like—a nineteen-year-old who'd forgotten basic human needs because pretty coffee art distracted him. My black hair stuck up at weird angles, and my eyes had that special hollow look that came from spending half the night sketching and the other half regretting my life choices.
Another stomach cramp hit. "Okay, okay, I get it. Food exists. I'll remember next time."
Twenty minutes and one very long shower later, I felt almost human again. I pulled on the CCG investigator outfit Marude had sent over—black pants, white shirt, that distinctive gray coat that screamed "official business." The clothes made me look maybe twenty-one instead of nineteen. Maybe.
Then came the accessories. I stared at the medical mask and plain black cap sitting on my dresser.
"You look like a first-year high school student," Marude had said during our last video call. "No civilian's going to feel safe with someone who looks like their kid brother carrying weapons. Wear these on patrol."
"A mask? Really?"
"It's flu season somewhere. Just do it, kid."
I pulled the mask over my face and tugged the cap down. Now I looked like a suspicious high schooler instead of a regular one. Progress.
The knife case clicked open under my touch. Ten knives, arranged perfectly—three sets of three and one loose. I counted them twice, then slid them into the hidden loops sewn inside the investigator coat. The weight settled familiar against my ribs.
My phone buzzed. Yamamoto: Coffee shop on 3rd Street. You drink coffee, right?
Not today, I typed back, stomach clenching at the thought.
Tea then. See you in 20.
The morning air helped clear my head as I walked. Ward 20 was already alive—shop owners rolling up gates, students trudging to early classes, salarymen power-walking with briefcases. Nobody gave me a second glance. The mask and cap was working, or maybe everyone was too focused on their own mornings to care about one more official-looking guy.
Yamamoto waited outside a small café, hands wrapped around a paper cup. He looked exactly like his file photo—late twenties, permanent stubble, the relaxed posture of someone who'd figured out Ward 20 was more retirement home than battlefield.
"Nakamura?" He looked me up and down, grin spreading. "Oh man, Marude wasn't kidding about the disguise."
"It's practical," I muttered through the mask.
"Sure it is." He handed me a cup. "Ginger tea. Good for angry stomachs."
I blinked. "How did you—"
"Kid, I've trained six rookies. You all make the same mistake first week—too much caffeine, not enough food. The bathroom tiles in your apartment are green, right?"
"...Yeah."
"Spent my first morning the same way. Come on, let's walk. I'll show you why this is the best assignment in Tokyo."
We started down the main street, Yamamoto pointing out landmarks with his cup.
"That's Mr. Tanaka's grocery. Been here forty years, knows everyone by name. Over there's the bookshop where college kids sell their textbooks. Oh, and that place?" He gestured at a narrow alley. "Best ramen after midnight, if you survive their spice challenge."
"Any ghoul activity in these areas?"
Yamamoto laughed. "You really are fresh from combat wards. Look around, Nakamura. See any broken windows? Blood stains? People running in terror?"
I looked. The street was... normal. Boring, even. An old woman watered flowers on her balcony. Two kids argued about whose turn it was to carry their school project.
"This is Ward 20," Yamamoto continued. "Our biggest problem last month was a bike theft ring. Turned out to be middle schoolers. I gave them a lecture and made them return everything."
"But we still patrol."
"Of course. Presence prevents problems." He sipped his coffee. "Plus, the shop owners like seeing us around. Makes them feel safe, even if the biggest danger is Mrs. Sato's gossip network."
We turned a corner, and I recognized the street from yesterday. Anteiku sat halfway down the block, already open despite the early hour.
"Great coffee there," Yamamoto said, catching my glance. "Owner's an old guy, real particular about his beans. The afternoon girl's pretty cute too, if you're into the serious type."
"I just like the coffee." My stomach gurgled in protest at the mere thought.
"Uh-huh." Yamamoto's grin said he didn't believe me. "Well, you'll have plenty of time to appreciate their... coffee. This is our usual morning route—main street, university district, circle back through the residential areas. Takes about three hours if we don't stop to chat."
"Do we usually stop to chat?"
"Constantly. That's half the job here. Mrs. Tanaka will want to know if you're eating properly. The convenience store kids will ask about becoming investigators. Oh, and avoid the cat café on Wednesdays—the owner tries to recruit everyone for her adoption events."
We spent the morning walking and talking, or rather, Yamamoto talked while I nodded and sipped my ginger tea. He knew everyone—which shops gave investigator discounts (most of them), which areas got sketchy after dark (none, really), and which vending machines had the best selection (the one behind the post office, apparently).
"You're not what I expected," he said as we circled back toward the CCG branch. "The youngest Special Class in history? I figured you'd be all rules and regulations, maybe some dramatic speeches about justice."
I shrugged. "I just like drawing."
"Drawing?" His eyebrows went up. "That why you're enrolled at Kamii?"
"Marude's orders. Finish my degree while Ward 20 stays quiet."
"Huh. Good for you." We stopped at a crosswalk. "Word of advice? The art supply store near campus gives student discounts, but the one in the shopping district has better quality. Depends what you're after."
"Thanks." I meant it. After months of combat zones where every local interaction involved fear or suspicion, this felt... nice.
"Same time tomorrow?" Yamamoto asked as we reached the branch office. "Unless something actually happens, which it won't."
"Same time."
He headed inside while I checked the time. Noon—plenty of time to hit the art store before it got crowded.
The coat, mask and hat came off as soon as I turned toward the university. Hiding them in a plastic bag I carried with me for convenience. No point looking official while shopping for pencils.
The art supply store near campus smelled like wood shavings and possibility. I grabbed a basket and let myself get lost in the aisles—different weights of paper, pencils from 6H to 8B, erasers that promised not to smudge. My CCG salary was probably meant for responsible things like savings, but after the morning patrol, I needed this.
"Transfer student?"
I looked up from comparing brush pens. A girl about my age stood nearby, canvas bag slung over her shoulder.
"Starting Monday," I said. "You?"
"Second year. You'll want the Steadtler pencils for Tanaka's class—he's very particular about line quality." She glanced at my basket. "Good paper choice though. Most transfers show up with printer paper."
"Thanks for the tip."
"No problem. I'm Yui, by the way. See you Monday, probably—transfer student who knows supplies."
She wandered off before I could respond. Normal store. Normal interaction. Normal life... No constant dangers...
This is bliss...
I grabbed the recommended pencils and headed to checkout, wallet lighter but spirits higher.
The walk back to my apartment took me past Anteiku again. My stomach, now properly settled, reminded me I hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon. The coffee smell drifting out made me pause.
One cup. With food this time.
The bell chimed, and the elderly manager looked up with that same gentle smile.
"Welcome back. Coffee again?"
"And whatever sandwich you recommend. I forgot to eat yesterday."
His eyes crinkled. "Ah, youth. One moment."
I took the same corner seat and pulled out my new supplies, testing pencil weights on the paper. The 2B felt perfect—dark enough for bold lines but still erasable.
"One coffee and our egg sandwich." Touka set the plate down carefully. "Manager says to eat first, then drink."
"Learned that lesson this morning." I took a bite—perfectly seasoned eggs on fresh bread. "This is really good."
"I'll tell the manager." She started to turn away, then paused. "Art student, right? You were sketching yesterday."
"Yeah. Transfer." I showed her the new pencils. "Getting supplied up."
"Mm." She studied the pencils like they might reveal something important. "My friend goes to Kamii. Says the art building's roof has the best view for sketching the city."
"I'll check it out. Thanks."
She nodded and moved on to other customers. Still the same careful distance as yesterday, but at least she'd offered information. Progress? Or just being polite to a regular-in-the-making?
The sandwich disappeared quickly, followed by careful sips of coffee. With food as a buffer, I could appreciate the blend without my stomach staging a rebellion. I sketched while I ate—quick studies of the other customers, the way steam curled from cups, Touka's efficient movements between tables.
"So you came back." The manager appeared at my table as I finished. "I hope today's visit is more comfortable than yesterday's."
I rubbed my neck. "Yeah, forgot that coffee needs food. Rookie mistake."
"We all learn. Though perhaps three cups was ambitious for a first visit."
"It was really good coffee."
He chuckled. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. Will you be a regular visitor?"
"If that's okay. The atmosphere's good for drawing."
"Artists are always welcome." He glanced at my sketches. "You have a good eye for movement. Touka is difficult to capture—she never stays still long."
I looked down at the quick gesture drawings of her carrying plates, wiping tables, pouring coffee. "Movement's just about finding the line of action. Everything else follows."
"Interesting perspective. Well, I'll leave you to your work."
The afternoon passed quietly. I filled several pages with 'studies' while nursing my single cup of coffee. Other customers came and went—students with laptops, an old man reading a newspaper, two women catching up over cake.
When the light started fading, I packed up. Touka was wiping down tables for the evening shift.
"Same time tomorrow?" she asked without looking up.
"Probably. If my stomach forgives me."
The ghost of a smile crossed her face. "Manager says to try the turkey sandwich next time. It's easier on sensitive systems."
"I'll remember that."
Outside, the evening crowd had started their routines. I joined the flow, just another person heading home after a day of ordinary activities. No blood. No screaming. No moving faster than humanly possible to avoid death.
My apartment welcomed me with silence and the last rays of sunset through the windows. I spread out the day's sketches, studying the lines and movements I'd captured. The coffee shop had good bones for drawing—interesting light, varied subjects, peaceful atmosphere.
My phone buzzed. Marude again: How was patrol?
Quiet. Yamamoto says the biggest threat is gossip.
Good. Keep the mask on though. You still look twelve.
I look at least sixteen.
In your dreams, kid. Get some rest.
I set up my new supplies on the desk, arranging pencils by hardness—three sets of four with one spare... Yeah, I didn't really feel it back then but I've got a case of OCD.
Tomorrow would bring another patrol, maybe more art shopping, definitely another visit to Anteiku. With food again this time. My stomach had made its position very clear on the coffee-only diet.
I started a fresh sketch from memory—the way afternoon light had caught Touka's purple bangs as she'd turned. Just practice, I told myself. Just keeping my skills sharp.