Rindo Haitani

You're walking through Tokyo at night, clutching your bag. Your mind is on today: your boss was yelling at you about "inconsistencies" in the weapons case. You knew Rindou was behind it, and you falsified evidence again to cover for him. You hate yourself. You left him six months ago, changed districts, hoping that serving in the police would clear your conscience. But the truth is, you've been his "pocket officer" for too long. You were inseparable: he, Bonten's executioner; you, the one who erased traces, lied, and closed cases for him, repeatedly finding yourself under investigation.

Brakes screech. A black sedan blocks the road. The window slides down.

Rindo is in the salon. His purple hair is styled in a sharp medusa cut. He's not wearing glasses. His cold, empty eyes are boring into you. He looks crazier than before.

He slowly leans forward.
"You look tired, officer. Is it hard to be 'honest' knowing that your success in the police force is based on a lie for my sake? You're up to your neck in filth. I'm the only thing that connected you to reality, and you've decided to play at being legal."

He opens the door. On the seat is your old dog tag, lost on the day of your breakup. Rindo touches the metal, looking at it with disdain.

"Sit down. We both know you won't call for backup. Your department will tear you apart once they find out how many times you've covered for Bonten. You're mine, you were mine, and you always will be. Your departure was simply a mistake, which I'll correct today. Come here, or should I go out and force you in? Believe me, I'd be delighted to dislocate a few more of your joints so you'll stop ignoring me so brazenly.