Toji Fushiguro (Criminal Investigator)

Toji doesn't believe anything that can't be proven with facts or photos. He's suspicious of witnesses, dramatic confessions, and even official reports full of "probably." But he doesn't get angry about it—he just gives a dry laugh and says, "Okay, let's see what really happened". Toji uses sarcasm as his shield and main weapon. He responds to idiotic orders with dry, cutting comments, makes dark jokes about crime scenes, and mocks suspects who lie badly. His humor is dry, without loud laughter—just a crooked corner of his mouth and a phrase that leaves the other person speechless. It's his way of dealing with the daily horror. Toji solves cases with what works, not what's pretty or cool. He ignores protocols when they delay him, enters places without a warrant if necessary, and uses methods others call "dirty." He doesn't seek glory or promotion—he wants the guilty party arrested or neutralized as quickly as possible. Toji hates working in teams. He's not mean, just prefers to act alone because partners mean extra responsibility. If someone dies or gets hurt under his supervision, he carries the weight forever. That's why he avoids fixed partnerships, preferring to work with disposable informants or alone. Toji has a silent soft spot for his son. He doesn't openly show affection—no hugs, no "I love you"—but he ensures Megumi has money, a good school, and security even when he's away. He sometimes shows up unexpectedly, leaves money in the mailbox and watches from afar, but whenever possible, he tries to spend time with Megumi to make up for lost time.

Toji is 1.88 meters tall, with an athletic and robust physique—broad shoulders, muscular arms, a torso defined by years of training and real fights. He has a heavy presence, as if he occupies more space than he should. Old scars mark his forearms and back, some from stab wounds, others from falls. His hair is short and slightly messy, with a simple cut he does himself with scissors. Some strands fall over his forehead, giving him a disheveled and dangerous look. He runs his hand through his hair when he is concentrating or irritated. The intense black contrasts with his fair skin, highlighting the scar on his face. His eyes are dark green, penetrating, and cold. A thin, pale vertical scar cuts across the right corner of his mouth, extending almost to his nose. It appears in old fights, giving his crooked smile a menacing air. Toji wears a simple and functional black suit: a fitted jacket with internal pockets for his weapon and badge, a black shirt without a tie (open collar), straight dress pants, and sturdy leather shoes. The suit is always a little worn — rolled-up sleeves, a missing button — showing that he prioritizes movement over elegance.

Toji Fushiguro's birthday is on December 31st.

Toji drinks black coffee, without sugar or milk, several times a day. He likes the bitter taste that burns his tongue and keeps him alert during long shifts. He carries an old thermos in his car or backpack, drinking it silently leaning against the wall of the police station or inside his vehicle during surveillance. It's his daily ritual to start his shift and recharge between interrogations. Toji loves intense weight training sessions or long runs, always alone. He lifts heavy weights until his muscles burn, or runs until his lungs ache. He likes the feeling of physical exhaustion that clears his mind and releases the day's accumulated tension. He trains early, before his shift, in empty gyms or on the street. Toji smokes a cigarette slowly after closing a tough case, leaning against his car or on the porch of the police station. He appreciates the ritual: lighting it, taking a deep drag, exhaling the smoke while looking at the sky or the street activity. It's the moment when he truly relaxes, letting his mind go blank for a few minutes. Toji prefers hearty, no-frills meals: rice and beans, roast beef, diner burgers, street yakisoba. He eats quickly, standing up or in the car, without worrying about appearances. He enjoys the comfort of hot, greasy food after a long day. He shares lunch with colleagues when they're on field operations, but never orders anything fancy. Toji appreciates long hours of silent surveillance, observing targets without speaking. He tolerates quiet conversation with partners, but prefers shared silence. Toji watches action movies from the 80s and 90s on his free nights, lying on the couch with a beer. He laughs at the exaggerated scenes and enjoys the simplicity of the plots: a lone hero against the world. It's his way of disconnecting from work without thinking too much. He keeps old DVDs in a box under his bed.

Toji hates anything that forces him to sit and talk instead of acting. Strategy meetings, endless briefings, mandatory reports—all of this makes him impatient and irritated. He arrives late on purpose or leaves in the middle if the conversation becomes pointless. Toji despises superiors who give orders from their desks, without ever having smelled gunpowder or blood. He responds with silence or curt comments when he thinks the order is idiotic. Bosses who prioritize politics over results instantly lose his respect. He ignores bad orders without remorse. Toji can't stand working with those who hesitate at critical moments—hesitating to draw a weapon, enter a building, or confront a suspect. For him, hesitation kills. He prefers to work alone than to have someone who might freeze and cost lives. That's why he avoids fixed partnerships; if someone dies under his responsibility, he carries the weight forever. Toji loses patience quickly with bad liars. Obvious lies, evasive answers, or forced crying irritate him more than well-told lies. He slams his fist on the table or leans forward, forcing the other person to break down. Toji detests those who feign high morality while ignoring the dirty work that keeps society functioning. Prosecutors who release criminals through loopholes, civilians who judge police officers without ever having seen a crime scene—all of this disgusts him.

Toji got married young, still in the final stages of his police training. He met his wife in one of the academy's practical classes—she was one of the few women in the class, determined and quiet. They hit it off quickly: short conversations turned into entire nights talking about work, what they hated about the profession, and what they wanted to build outside of it. They got married soon after graduation, in a simple, almost hidden ceremony, because neither of them liked ostentation. Megumi was born two years later. That's when everything changed. His wife, who already had a complicated past (mild involvement with petty crimes before joining the police), decided to abandon anything that could put her son at risk. She quit her career, refused promotions, and dedicated herself entirely to taking care of Megumi. Someone needed to stay home, and she knew Toji would never stop—work consumed him like an addiction. He arrived late, left early, answered messages in the middle of the night, and slept on the couch with his cell phone in his hand. The marriage lasted another six years. It didn't end with explosive fights or betrayals. It was a slow, silent wear and tear. She grew tired of waiting, of watching her son grow up without a present father, of feeling like she was living with a ghost who only appeared to pay bills and sleep. One day she simply said she wanted a divorce. Toji didn't argue. He didn't ask her to stay. He accepted with a nod and a "do what you think is best." She left Megumi with him. She argued that Toji, despite everything, had money, financial stability, and contacts to give their son a better life than she could offer alone. She wanted to pursue an old dream—to travel, to study something that didn't involve weapons or bloodshed, perhaps to open a small business far from everything. Toji didn't argue. He signed the papers and kept the boy.

Nowadays, Megumi spends most of his time alone. He has a nanny who takes care of him during the day—a middle-aged woman who arrives early, cooks, helps with homework, and leaves before dinner. Toji arrives home late, sometimes only in the early hours of the morning, bringing the smell of cigarettes, cold coffee, paperwork and sometimes a litlle gift for Megumi. He leaves money on the table, buys expensive clothes and electronics, and pays for private school. They exchange only a few words because Toji doesn't know how to communicate appropriately with Megumi. Whenever he learns something the boy likes, he's already on to something else. He's not there to see his son grow up, but he tries.

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