The police station looked like every other soulless government box Rose had ever seen—gray brick, cold steel, and the stink of bureaucracy leaking through every crack.
Rose stood on the steps out front, her coat wrapped tight around her frame, sunglasses hiding the evidence of last night's binge. The cigarette between her fingers burned low and bent, ash flaking onto the cold pavement. She inhaled once more before flicking it away, the embers scattering like tiny dying stars.
She stomped out her cigarette on the concrete steps with the heel of her boot, flicking the filter toward the gutter.
"Fucking hell," she muttered, adjusting her sunglasses and stepping inside.
Inside, the lobby smelled of stale paper and tired men. A uniformed officer behind the front desk barely glanced up when she entered.
"Name?" he asked without looking.
"Rose Brook," she said flatly. "I have an appointment."
The desk sergeant gave her a once-over, unimpressed. "Second floor. Last door on the right."
She didn't say thank you. She didn't look back.
Her boots clicked with purpose on the linoleum, echoing down the sterile hallway. Each step forward only made her angrier. Tighter. She hadn't slept. She'd downed two glasses of scotch at 10 am. Her head buzzed with a sick cocktail of rage and regret.
She reached the door and didn't knock—just pushed it open.
Detective Lisa Kowalska glanced up, calm and unimpressed.
"You're late."
"I'm doing you a favor, sweetheart," Rose snapped, slamming the door shut behind her. "Let's not pretend this is a goddamn tea party."
Lisa gestured to the chair across from her. "Have a seat."
Rose dropped into it like a storm cloud, throwing her coat over the back. Her makeup was immaculate, but the eyes behind it were bloodshot.
Lisa turned on a recorder and set it down. "For the record—"
"Oh, go ahead," Rose muttered, lighting a cigarette. "You'll want it for when everything goes to shit."
"Put that out," Lisa says coldly.
"What are you gonna do, arrest me for smoking while I'm bringing down a murderer?" Rose laughs.
"No. But it would tell me a lot about your respect for the truth."
Rose scoffs and crushes the cigarette in the metal ashtray with slow, venomous flair.
"Well, kazou? He's dangerous. Unstable. He lied to everyone—me, the world. I'm telling you, he belongs in a damn cage. I knew him better than anyone! You wanna see what he did to me? Look at me! He ruined my life!"
Lisa raised a brow. "You lived with him, if I remember correctly, right?"
"Yeah. Lived." Rose laughed dryly. "We shared a bed, shared meals. I thought I knew him. Turns out I was playing house with the fucking Antichrist."
Lisa clicked her pen. "And you're just now reporting this?"
"Oh, fuck off," Rose snapped. "You think it's easy to admit you were sleeping next to a killer? You think I didn't try to warn people already? They just smiled, patted my hand, and told me to get some fucking rest."
Lisa stared at her for a long, quiet beat. "Why now?"
Rose hesitated, her expression tightening. "Because he left. And I think... I think he's going to do it again. Somewhere else. I had to make sure someone—anyone—was listening before he vanishes again."
"There was a murder at Tokyo's history museum not long ago. Multiple staff members were killed. And I believe Kuroda was involved. Would you testify?" Lisa asked slowly. "If we open a serial murder case?"
Rose leaned back. Her lips twisted into a bitter frown. "That son of a bitch isn't just a murderer, he's a fucking monster. Cold. Calculated. Have you ever met someone who could smile while talking about death? That's Kazou. And yes, I'll testify, write statements, scream it on national fucking TV. Whatever you want. I want him caught. I want him crushed. And when you find him… I want to be the one who gets to say: I told you so."
Lisa nodded once, flipping her notebook closed. "We'll be in touch."
Rose stood. "Yeah. You better be."
She yanked the door open, paused just long enough to say, "And one more thing, Detective—don't trust his face. That's how he gets you."
Then she was gone, her heels clacking back down the hallway like gunshots in a quiet town.
***
Lisa remained still. She stared at the closed door for a long, silent moment, then leaned back in her chair. Her eyes drifted to the ashtray on her desk, where Rose's cigarette still smoldered, a crooked line of smoke curling into the ceiling.
She reached out, pinched it out between her gloved fingers, and dropped the butt into an evidence bag. Labeled it:
"BROOK, ROSE – INTERVIEW #1 – 31/01/1996"
Then, calmly, she turned back to the recorder.
"Subject: Rose Brook. Interview concluded at 14:26. Witness exhibits unstable emotional behavior, clear signs of substance abuse. Testimony possibly compromised by personal vendetta. Recommending a psychological evaluation. However…"
She paused, tapping her pen once. Then again.
"There are truths buried in madness. The pattern of behavior is consistent with previous victims' descriptions of Kazou Kuroda. The intensity of her account suggests one of two things: she's either a very good liar… or she's seen something that broke her."
She stopped the tape. A quiet knock on the door.
Lisa's eyes flicked toward the door, already knowing who it was.
A young detective poked his head in, expression stiff with unease.
"Detective Lisa Kowalska. The forensics report. From Tokyo."
She was already on her feet before he finished the sentence. The chair rolled back with surgical precision. She opened the door, took the sealed folder from his hands without a word, her eyes never leaving his face.
"Lock my office behind me."
She didn't wait for a reply.
Lisa strode down the hallway, coat swinging behind her, heels quiet on the tile. Her face was neutral. Focused. Beneath it, her mind ticked like a machine. Every file, every lie, every contradiction Rose gave—already logged and cross-checked against everything she'd read on Kazou Kuroda in the last 48 hours. This wasn't just about Rose anymore.
Lisa Kowalska did not suspect Kazou Kuroda. She knew.
Kazou Kuroda was a murderer.
The pieces were already moving—she had watched them click into place while Rose unraveled in front of her. The desperation in her voice, the performance masquerading as trauma—it wasn't the lies that interested Lisa.
It was what Rose believed to be true.
And that made it useful.
***
Lisa opened the file slowly, spreading the contents across the table. Rows of metal shelving stretched out like a graveyard of cold cases, each box and file a quiet scream trapped in paper. Detective Lisa Kowalska entered like a scalpel piercing skin—sharp, cold, and without hesitation. She moved with mechanical grace, her long coat whispering behind her, heels silent on concrete.
"Where is it...?"
Her eyes scanned the rows with surgical intent until they landed on what she came for: the sealed forensic envelope from Tokyo, marked URGENT.
She carried it to the nearest steel examination table and laid it out under the harsh fluorescent lights. With gloved fingers, she broke the seal.
What spilled out wasn't evidence. It was a narrative stitched in blood and silence.
Photographs. Dozens.
The museum scene in Tokyo: glass shattered, exhibits toppled, paintings slashed like they had insulted someone's god. A rare Meiji-era scroll—cut clean down the center, its ink smeared with arterial spray. There was order to the chaos. Deliberate.
Lisa studied one image. A shot from above. The blood pooled in a near-perfect semicircle around the victim's head.
She leaned closer. Zoomed her eyes onto the victim's expression—a faint O-shaped mouth. Eyes half-lidded. Many other victims were in the photos. Each shot is in a fatal area.
She laid the photos aside and reached for the ballistics report, printed on thick, yellowing paper.
Caliber .32, standard revolver rounds. No casing found at the scene—likely collected by the shooter. The report noted the wounds were close-range, two shots to the chest, one to the temple—execution style. Precise. Clinical. No signs of hesitation.
Lisa frowned. No silencer—not common for revolvers. The killer's confidence was evident. Trained, or frighteningly cold.
Next, she unfolded the fingerprint analysis, another photocopy stapled to the file. The print was partial, smudged, and the lab noted the scene was likely contaminated. Gloves might have been worn, or the prints wiped clean, but a faint residue lingered.
She leaned closer, inspecting the magnified scan of a shard of broken glass—something almost invisible to the naked eye: a trace of skin oil picked up under ultraviolet light.
Her pulse quickened.
INTERPOL's telex came through just hours ago—slow, but decisive.
Name matched: Kazou Kuroda.
Lisa's breath caught. The name sat heavy in her mind like a trigger waiting to be pulled.
She closed her eyes briefly. Inhale. The mechanical click of her pen tapping the table. Exhale.
The chase was on.
Next came the boarding pass—stapled to a Polish customs form.
Flight JL161. Haneda to Warsaw.
Arrived: two days ago.
Kazou had come here.
Why?
She reached for her notebook and scribbled something quickly in tidy, mechanical script:
"Kazou is in Poland."
She circled it.
Then drew an arrow.
"Next move: Warsaw?"
Her hand stopped. The ink bled at the tip of her pen. Lisa folded her hands, eyes never leaving the scattered evidence. She paused, letting the weight of the boarding pass settle. Two days ago. Warsaw. The timeline fit too neatly with the murders.
Perfect.
Her voice dropped to a whisper, a vow to the empty room:
"Show yourself."