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Chapter 13 - Chapter 11 – Echoes in the Evidence

The precinct always felt heavier at night. Fluorescent lights hummed like tired bees, vending machines buzzed in the corner, and the smell of burnt coffee hung stubbornly in the air. Files stacked like leaning towers on desks, muted voices drifted between cubicles, and the whole place seemed less like a center of justice and more like a hospital for the weary.

Seigi sat hunched at his desk, papers spread out in front of him. On the surface it was routine work — reports to file, forms to sign — but his pen hadn't moved in ten minutes. His bandaged knuckles stung when he pressed the paper, the ache a reminder of fists driven too hard into steel. Every time he blinked, he saw the shimmer in the mirror, the impossible thread he had touched.

"You'll tear a hole in the page if you glare any harder," Sato's gravelled voice cut across the bullpen.

Seigi started to reply, but the words caught. A quiet presence had entered the room.

Hana.

She crossed the bullpen without hesitation, heels muted on the worn linoleum. She set a folder on Sato's desk with the calm precision of someone who had done it a hundred times. Her coat was neat, her hair pinned back, her posture steady. A faint trace of soap and lab chemicals followed her, clean against the stale precinct air.

"Blood pattern from the warehouse case," she said evenly. Her tone was professional, but her eyes carried something else. "It wasn't consistent with blunt force. The trajectory suggests… something else."

Sato flipped the file open, scanning the neat diagrams inside. His brows furrowed. "Something else like what?"

For the briefest moment, Hana's gaze flicked to Seigi. The glance was quick, but it landed heavy, like a pin driven through his chest.

"Like a force that doesn't belong in the natural order," she replied quietly. Then, with a faint shrug, "But that's just the data. You'll make your own judgment."

Sato grunted. "Still neat as a scalpel," he muttered, flipping the file. "You ever once turn in a report with a coffee ring on it?"

Hana's lips curved faintly. "I don't drink coffee."

"Figures," Sato said. "Too sharp for bad habits."

The corner of Seigi's mouth twitched, but the weight of her glance hadn't left him. There had been recognition there, subtle but unmistakable. He shifted, restless, his pulse a little too fast.

"Careful which threads you pull, Detective," she murmured as she gathered her bag. "Some of them are already tangled."

And then she was gone, leaving only the hum of the lights.

Sato muttered without looking up, "Don't get lost staring, Seigi. She's sharper than she looks."

Seigi forced a dry laugh, but his chest was tight. She hadn't just been delivering evidence. She had been speaking to him.

The bullpen door pushed open again. Renji appeared, juggling a plastic bag and a cardboard tray of coffees.

"Dinner delivery for the night owls," he announced lightly, dropping instant ramen cups onto their desks. "Try not to die at your stations. It makes for terrible paperwork."

"Finally," Sato grumbled, pulling a cup toward him.

Renji smirked. "What, you'd rather live on cigarettes and sarcasm? Not exactly a balanced diet."

Even Seigi cracked a small grin at that, the normalcy almost welcome.

Then Renji's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and for a split second, his expression cracked — irritation, then dread. He masked it quickly.

"Sorry," he muttered, already backing toward the door. "Important. Won't be long."

He left in a hurry, chopsticks still rattling at the bottom of the bag.

Seigi watched him go, frowning. Renji was many things, but hurried was not usually one of them.

Outside, in the dim glow of the parking lot, Renji answered the call. His breath misted in the cold.

"I told you not to use this line," he hissed, voice low. Whoever was on the other end spoke calmly, almost lazily. Renji's jaw tightened.

"I'm doing what you asked. More than you asked. But if you keep pressing—" He stopped, listening. His grip on the phone whitened. "No. I'm not saying no. I'm just saying…"

Another pause. His eyes flicked upward, toward the lit windows of the precinct, toward Seigi's desk somewhere inside. His face drained.

"…I understand."

The call ended. He stared at the dark screen of his phone, his reflection looking back at him with hollow eyes. He shoved the phone into his coat and lit a cigarette, letting it burn down between his fingers until it stung.

Back upstairs, Seigi sat alone at his desk. The ramen Renji had left steamed faintly in front of him, the smell salty and cheap. He broke the chopsticks and stirred absently, watching the noodles coil like threads tangling in the broth.

For a moment, he let himself imagine this was all there was — late nights, paperwork, bad ramen, colleagues who carried their own quiet storms. It almost felt normal.

But as he lifted the first bite to his lips, the memory of Hana's eyes and Renji's hurried exit pressed in again. Even here, in the small warmth of a plastic cup of noodles, the shadows were waiting.

He chewed slowly, his chest tightening. Normal was already gone.

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