You'd think catching a serial killer would earn you hero status. A medal. A parade, maybe. But no, apparently, breaking both of the bastard's legs and knocking out half his teeth makes me the unstable one.
Okay, sure. Maybe I'm the only detective on record to do that. But it's not like I did it for fun. The guy was a tough son of a bitch. Besides, he taught me everything I know. Fighting him was like throwing hands with my own shadow, only my shadow didn't hesitate to stab people for fun.
I'm Kou Tomozaki. Detective. Three years of experience, plus a lifetime of training for it. For the past six months, though, I've been buried in a mountain of paperwork and slowly losing my mind. My last case wrapped up on March 15, 2018. Today is September 21. Six months without a real case. Six months of coffee that tastes like burnt regret. Six months of being treated like I'm radioactive.
…
"You're late, dumbass."
"Good morning to you too, shithead."
Steven Jackson, ladies and gentlemen. My ex-partner, best friend, and one of the only people who didn't bail after I went full psycho-mode. When my own family ghosted me, when my ex packed her bags and blocked my number, when everyone else whispered behind my back, Steven stuck around. In his own messed-up way, that counts for something.
Normally, I'm the first one in the station. Today, I missed the bus and walked thirty minutes in the rain. My socks are wet, my coffee's cold, and I've already imagined setting fire to this place twice.
As I pass Steven's desk, he grins without looking up from his computer. "Hey, DUDE! Wait a sec. The chief said to swing by his office when you get in."
I stop mid-step. "You gotta be shitting me. It's the first time I've ever been late."
Steven shrugs. "I don't—"
"I swear to God, it's because I'm Asian," I mutter darkly, just loud enough for him to hear. "That racist, fat, balding piece of—"
Steven's eyes go wide.
Too late.
I already feel the heat on the back of my neck, the burning gaze of Chief Donnelly boring a hole through my skull. I turn slowly, like a condemned man facing the gallows.
And there he is.
A mountain of a man: six-five, pale, built like a retired linebacker who's been hitting the doughnuts harder than the gym. Bald. Moustache that looks like it crawled off a dying raccoon and made a new home on his upper lip. Arms crossed. Eyes narrowed. Rage simmering just below the surface like a volcano on a three-second countdown.
He doesn't say a word.
He doesn't have to.
Because I already know, I'm screwed.
Chief Donnelly's glare cuts through me like a damn scalpel, but all he says is:
"Meet me in my office. Now."
No rant. No threat. Just that heavy order.
I swallow, give a stiff nod, and fall in behind him. His footsteps echo down the corridor like the ticking of a countdown. Steven walks beside me, doing a poor job of hiding his smug grin.
"Guess this is what being in trouble looks like, huh?" he murmurs under his breath.
"Shut up," I snap, eyes fixed forward. I'm not in the mood for jokes, not even his.
The chief's office is as intimidating as the man himself. Massive oak door. Old leather smell. And that quiet tension you only find in places where too many careers have died slow deaths. He closed the door behind him, definitely just to make me more nervous.
I knock once.
"Enter," comes the gruff reply.
Inside, Donnelly stands behind his desk, arms crossed over his barrel chest. The office is dim, blinds half-shut, dust motes swirling in the slanted light like lazy ghosts. For just a second his stone-cold expression falters, and I catch something flicker behind his eyes.
Concern? I can't tell.
"Why did I keep you benched for so long, Tomozaki?" he asks quietly. The words are calm, but they carry weight, like he's been sitting on them for months.
That's a loaded question.
Could be because I broke Marcus's nose during an argument, though, in my defense, he did say the victims had it coming. Could be because I haven't shown up to the gym in weeks, and my trigger discipline's gotten sloppy. Could be because the golden boy prodigy who became a detective at twenty-one stopped shining.
But deep down, I know the real reason. It's none of that.
The truth is harder to say out loud.
That last case, it wasn't just close to home. It was home. The killer wasn't some nameless freak. He was someone I trusted. Someone who shaped the cop I became. And when I caught him, the part of me that believed in rules and lines and clean justice got gutted.
That bench wasn't a punishment.
It was Donnelly throwing me a rope before I drowned in my own rage.
I meet his eyes and say, deadpan, "Is it because I punched Marcus in the face?"
His lips twitch. "No."
"Then it's about the last case."
He gives a dry, humorless chuckle. "Ding, ding."
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "I'll admit it. I wasn't okay."
He sits down slowly, leans back in his creaky leather chair, and exhales through his nose. It sounds more like a sigh of exhaustion than judgment.
"Kou, your last case… was a goddamn mess. You shattered the guy's legs. You bloodied him up so bad, media had to blur the photos. You made headlines, and not the good kind. Every brass above me wanted your badge on my desk before the end of the week."
He pauses, watching me carefully.
"But I didn't give it to them."
"And why is that?"
He studies me for a moment. Then says, simply, "Because I know what unstable looks like. And that wasn't it."
He leans forward now, forearms resting on the desk, eyes locked on mine.
"You snapped, yeah. But you didn't kill him. You still cuffed him. Still read him his rights. You could've ended him, and I think, deep down, that no one would've actually blamed you, not after what he did. But you didn't. That counts for something."
I don't know what to say to that.
Silence stretches between us, thick and awkward.
Finally, I manage, "So… what now? I keep sitting at that desk until I grow spider webs on my pants?"
He grunts. "No. I think it's time you proved yourself capable, again."
He opens a drawer and rifles through a pile of files. Paper rustles. His face tightens with focus. Then, finally, he pulls one out with a little nod, like he's been saving it.
"Here. Your case."
He slides the manila folder across the desk. I open it, flipping through the first few pages like a man in a desert offered a sip of water, thirsty for real work. The victim profiles, surveillance notes, timelines—
Then I stop.
The second page isn't a case report.
It's a briefing.
An undercover operation.
No ordinary investigation. No standard tailing or stakeout.
This is deep cover. Fake ID, fake life, fake everything.
I flip through the file, page after page of instructions, background fabrication, surveillance guidelines, and logistics. Then I see it, the address, and my fingers pause.
Apartment Building F-4, Unit 25.
Something about it feels… wrong. I can't explain it, but a chill starts to creep up my spine, slow and deliberate, like cold fingers tracing my neck.
I glance up. "Why an undercover op at an apartment complex?" I ask, brows furrowing. "What am I supposed to find? Rent violations?"
Donnelly doesn't answer right away. He leans back in his chair, folds his arms, and lets the silence thicken the room.
Then he says, voice low and measured, "Six people. Two months. Gone without a trace."
I blink. "Gone?"
He nods grimly. "All of them lived in that building. Every single one from the same block of apartments, Units 21 through 26. No signs of forced entry. No struggle. No screams. Just vanished."
I look back down at the report. Names. Ages. Occupations. Notes on daily habits. One by one, students, bartenders, a nurse, a guy who worked IT. All of them normal. All of them erased.
"And the neighbors?" I ask. "Nobody saw anything?"
"Nothing useful," Donnelly says. "A few weird noises reported. One neighbor claimed they heard footsteps on their ceiling… but they live on the top floor. Another complained of 'whispers through the walls,' but when we followed up, they swore they never said that."
My stomach tightens.
"You're telling me six people disappear, all from the same stretch of apartments, and we've got nothing?"
"No prints. No blood. No signs of a struggle. Just some half-baked urban legend shit floating around."
"And the cops on scene?" I ask.
Donnelly hesitates.
That silence lasts too long.
Long enough to confirm what I already suspect, whatever happened in that building shook them.
"Most of them didn't find anything," he says finally, the words coming slow, careful. "Just empty apartments, nothing unusual. No blood. No struggle. Just absence."
He pauses, jaw flexing like he's deciding whether or not to tell me the next part.
"But one of them, Officer Smith, saw something… interesting."
I tilt my head slightly. "Interesting how?"
"He went there twice. Once at the start of the investigation. Once four days ago."
Donnelly leans forward now, voice dropping to almost a whisper, like the walls themselves are listening.
"The first time, he noticed a small number etched into the ceiling of the elevator. Barely visible. Looked like someone scratched it in with a key or nail. It was a '1.'"
He takes a breath.
"When he returned four days ago, the number was still there, but it wasn't a '1' anymore."
My stomach turns.
"It was a '6.'"
My eyes narrow. "So five more people disappeared in that time?"
He gives a grim nod. "We don't know what it means. Could be a countdown. Could be a body count. Could be nothing. But Smith swears he didn't imagine it. We had the elevator repainted after that. Yesterday, the number came back. Now it's a 7."
My fingers tighten around the file.
No blood. No prints. No signs of struggle.
Just numbers silently climbing.
Like the building itself is keeping score.
I close the file slowly. The paper feels heavier now, like it's holding something it shouldn't.
My hand lingers on the cover as if pressing it down could somehow trap whatever's inside.
"Apartment twenty-five?" I ask.
Donnelly nods. "Top floor. You'll move in as Kazuki Noah. Quiet guy, no family, no friends, just moved here from the north for work. Fresh start. Don't make noise. Don't ask too many questions. Blend in."
"No badge. No backup." I say, already feeling the weight of isolation wrap around me.
"Exactly. No one in that building can know who you are. Not even the landlord."
My eyes flick back to him. "And if I disappear like the others?"
His expression hardens.
"Then I'll be the first one kicking down that damn door."
He slides a small envelope across the desk. It's thick and sealed tight. I open it.
Inside: a set of keys with a dull brass tag labeled 25, a black burner phone, and a forged photo ID that reads Kazuki Noah above my face. The photo looks wrong. Like someone who almost looks like me but isn't. That, I guess, is the point.
Donnelly watches me silently for a moment, then leans forward, folding his hands.
"So what do you say, Detective Tomozaki? Will you take the case?"
I stare at the contents of the envelope for a long moment, then slowly close it, my fingers brushing the photo one last time.
"Can I think about it?"
His jaw tightens just slightly. "You've got twenty-four hours. But between you and me?" He meets my eyes, gaze steely.
"I don't think you'll sleep until you say yes."
And I know he's right.