EIGHT MONTHS EARLIER…
I'm too good. Actually, too good. Eighteen cases in two months. Kidnappings, drug deals, psychos running around with knives, whatever mess the city throws at me, I clean it up before breakfast.
The cops can't keep up, the suits upstairs can't stop bragging about me, and the crooks? They've started whispering my name like I'm some kind of urban legend. Half of them don't even run anymore, they just give up the second they see me coming.
I walk into a crime scene, and it's like flipping a switch: everyone suddenly remembers what competence looks like. I don't follow leads, They follow me. I don't chase perps, they trip over themselves trying to get away.
The truth? I'm untouchable. Too fast, too sharp, too damn good.
Right now, I'm in the gym. Forgot to mention, I'm not just the brain of this force, I'm the muscle too. Best combatant we've got, hands down. And today? I'm proving it again.
The whole squad's lined up in the bleachers, eyes on the mat. Mr. Jonas is pacing in front of us, barking out the final drill. I already know what's coming. One-on-one sparring. My favorite.
"As for the last exercise," Jonas says, "we'll do a little sparring session. Who wants to go first?"
My hand's already in the air before Jonas even finishes the sentence. He spots me, smirks, like he knew it'd be me all along. Of course it'd be me.
"Sure, Kou. You got the first match… but who will you be fighting? Really, no one wants to step in." His eyes sweep over the line of officers, half of them pretending to study the floor, the others shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Not one of them volunteers. Not surprised.
"C'mon, Steve," Jonas finally says, pointing at the poor bastard. "You go first."
Steve groans, dragging himself up from the bench. The look on his face says it all: he'd rather be anywhere else. I roll my shoulders loose, grinning as I step onto the mat.
From the bleachers, I catch someone muttering, "this bitch wants to show off again…" Good. Let him keep talking. I'll make him eat his words when Steve hits the mat.
"You ready? To get beat up, that is," Steve grins, light in his eyes. He's the only guy here who doesn't roll his eyes when I act like the best. Probably because deep down, he knows I am. I might even go easy on him… nah. Nobody pulls punches out there.
"In your dreams," I shoot back, just as the whistle blows.
Steve charges. Kick, punch, another punch, he's fast, sharper than most. I let him throw it all at me. My defense is flawless. A slip here, a sidestep there. Dodging everything with a smile tugging at my lips. He smiles too, because he knows I'm holding back.
After a minute of making the mat look like my stage, I decide it's time. He winds up a hook, predictable. I duck under clean, my fist driving up into his liver with surgical precision. His breath hitches. I push him back, easy, playful. I could've ended it right there, but I don't. He's my friend, and breaking his nose in front of everyone would just be cruel.
Instead, I flash him a grin. "You're still standing. Impressive. Most don't get that far."
I start again, this time pressing him. Punch, kick, feint, he's blocking, reading me, holding his ground. Steve's no pushover. But if I want to end this, I end it.
I throw a kick, let him catch it. The second his hands close around my leg, I'm already airborne, my other foot slams into his chest. He stumbles back, coughing, as I spin through the air and land on my feet in a clean backflip. The whole room reacts, a low murmur rippling through the crowd.
Before he can recover, I'm on him. Headlock. Tight, controlled. He taps quick, he knows there's no way out.
"Too easy," I mutter, just loud enough for him to hear.
The bleachers erupt with shit talk.
"He's so weak."
"How did he even get in the force?"
All of it aimed at Steve. They don't get it. They never do.
I pull him up and give him a grin. "You've improved so much, dude. Good job."
He forces a smile. "Thanks." Then he steps off the mat, shoulders stiff. He looks weaker than he is. Truth is, he's a better fighter than half these clowns, he just had the bad luck of going against me.
Then I hear it. Michael's smug voice. "Stevie, that's why you're only an assistant detective."
Assistant detective. That's not even a thing. Sure, Steve handles more of the paperwork in our partnership, but he's sharp. He'd make a damn good detective on his own.
Jonas motions me to step off the mat, but I don't move. My finger shoots up, pointing at Michael.
"How about you put your fists where your mouth is?"
The room goes quiet. Every eye swings to Michael.
He smirks, like he's been waiting for me to call him out. "Finally. I thought you'd never grow a pair, Kou."
Jonas lifts a hand. "Enough. Kou, you already fought. Michael, sit your ass down."
But Michael's already on his feet, peeling off his jacket slow, cocky as hell. "Nah, let him have what he wants. Big bad Kou thinks he's untouchable? Let's test that theory."
The other guys start hooting, stomping, like it's some underground fight club instead of training. Jonas pinches the bridge of his nose but doesn't stop us, he knows it's already happening.
Michael steps onto the mat, rolling his shoulders. "Don't hold back. I want to see if the legend lives up to the hype."
I flash him a grin, all teeth. "Careful what you wish for."
Jonas just sighs and blows the whistle. He's seen me do this enough times to know what's about to happen.
The second the sound cuts the air, I explode forward. Michael barely has time to set his stance, arms snapping up to guard his face. Predictable. Too predictable.
I drop low, plant my foot on his thigh, and spring upward. His guard shifts instinctively to his torso, bracing for a kick to the ribs. Wrong choice.
I twist in the air, my heel slicing clean across the side of his head. The crack echoes through the gym, and his body drops like a puppet with the strings cut. Out cold from a single hit.
I land soft, steady, not even winded. Like it was routine.
The silence that follows is deafening, then the room erupts. Some guys are shouting, others groaning like they just watched a car crash. A couple of Michael's friends leap to their feet, yelling his name, but he doesn't even twitch on the mat.
"Holy shit," someone whispers from the back.
"Did you see that? One kick, ONE kick!" another blurts.
"Monster," a third mutters under his breath.
Jonas steps in, kneeling to check Michael, then raises a hand to wave over the med team. His jaw is tight, but I catch the flicker of a smile he tries to hide. Even he can't deny what just happened.
I raise a finger, slowly, deliberately, and aim it at one of Michael's buddies in the bleachers. My smirk spreads wider.
"Next."
The room goes dead quiet again.
I hold the pose a second longer, finger still aimed at Michael's crew. None of them move. Their eyes flicker between me and their unconscious friend, and I can practically smell their fear.
Then Jonas comes at me, his boots thudding against the canvas. He grabs my forearm in a vice grip before I can point at anyone else.
"In my office. NOW!" His voice cracks like a whip across the gym.
…
EIGHT MONTHS LATER...
I can't stop replaying that day in my head. The day everything shifted. The day I was assigned the Crow's case, the one that would change my life forever.
I remember it clearly. After Jonas made me scrub the entire gym as punishment, Donnelly called me into his office. He slid a file across the desk, half-smiling as he said, "Try not to finish this one too fast."
We both thought it was a joke. But it wasn't. That case swallowed me whole. Nearly two months of chasing shadows before I finally cornered the killer. And because of that bastard, because of everything that happened afterward, I'm here now, stuck in this haunted apartment, staring at the ceiling, replaying the past like a broken record.