Rain had fallen for three days straight over the Senfoku precinct, turning the cracked concrete into shallow black mirrors that reflected nothing but sky the color of old bruises. When the bodies were finally carried out—some still in uniform, others half-dressed from off-duty hours—the silence that followed was louder than any siren. Chairs sat empty at roll call. Radios hissed unanswered static. The massacre hadn't just taken lives; it had taken rhythm, routine, certainty.
They rebuilt fast because they had to.
Seven days. One week that felt like seven funerals.
New badges were pressed into shaking palms over lukewarm coffee in windowless rooms. Awake Naomi accepted command of Okinawa with a nod so small it barely moved her hair; her eyes already looked older than the rest of her face. Olso Namade arrived without fanfare, slipping into his desk like he'd always been there, saying almost nothing and watching everything. Audo Aimal carried his laptop under one arm like a shield, fingers already twitching toward keys he hadn't yet earned the right to press. And Ken Dokaku—quiet, hollow-eyed Ken—found himself handed the keys to the Kyoko district office. The weight of the title settled on his shoulders like wet wool.
Somewhere far above them all, a different absence ached.
L had disappeared four years earlier. No dramatic exit. No farewell note pinned under a sugar cube. Just… gone.
The world waited a respectful six months, then another six, then stopped waiting.
They called him deserter. Fraud. Relic collecting dust on a shelf nobody bothered to clean.
The throne he'd never physically occupied stood empty now, and every new promotion felt like someone trying to sit in a chair that was never meant for them.