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The morning hangs over Jamrock like something undecided, a pale, diluted light caught between industry and neglect, and in that uncertain wash, you stand, positioned just off the front steps of Precinct 41, your floral button-up tucked with care into a pair of unapologetically purple bell-bottoms that flare around your shoes. The shirt is clean, not the desperate late-stage approximation you once passed off as such, and though the fabric sits slightly strained over the softened plane of your stomach, it does so with honesty that suggests recent meals, regular ones, taken sitting down rather than chased with spirits, and there is something almost defiant in the way you inhabit it.
Your muttonchops remain, glorious, questionable, yet unmistakable, though trimmed now, coaxed into shape, and your hair, grown a little longer, falls with an absent-minded intention - you have looked into the mirror and not recoiled, which in itself is a minor miracle worth documenting in triplicate. You wait, hands buried in your pockets, rocking once on your chunky heels before stilling yourself again, aware that too much motion might unravel whatever fragile equilibrium you have negotiated with yourself today.
You are not creeping in late, not skulling, not recovering from anything more catastrophic than a night’s sleep. The street offers its own subdued theatre, a lorry rattling past with an exhausted groan, and somewhere, faintly, music leaks from a distant radio, distorted into something almost elegiac by distance and disrepair.
PERCEPTION (HEARING) — Is that Speedfreaks FM?
VOLITION — Ahem. There is structure here now, whether you fully trust it or not, a lattice of small, repeated decisions that have, over weeks, accumulated into something resembling stability, and it would be both inaccurate and unfair to dismiss that simply because it lacks spectacle; you got up, you dressed yourself, you arrived on time, and you are standing upright without chemical assistance.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY — It could be better, though, couldn’t it? You know exactly how little it would take to achieve that.
VOLITION — No. That avenue is not under consideration.
You inhale slowly, the air carrying a familiar mix of damp concrete and salt, and let it settle somewhere behind your ribs without interrogating it further, because to do so would be to invite the conversation to continue, and you have learned that not every voice requires engagement. Your fingers flex once inside your pockets, brushing against the lining. When you found these pants for 1 reál, you could not stop yourself from buying them immediately.
EMPATHY — He will see it, you know, not just the clothes, though those are difficult to ignore, but the effort and calibration. He will like it.
DRAMA — Ah, sire, but imagine the moment, the pause, the infinitesimal adjustment of posture, the flicker of something almost surprise suppressed beneath professionalism, and you, resplendent in your chromatic defiance, awaiting judgment like a particularly disreputable peacock in the dock.
You shift your weight again, more deliberately this time, grounding yourself in the sensation of your heels against the pavement, the slight pull of fabric across your thighs, the tangible evidence that you occupy a body that is, for the moment, functioning within acceptable parameters, and your gaze drifts briefly to the precinct door before returning to the street, unwilling to be caught watching too intently, as though anticipation itself might be construed as a kind of weakness.
The low hum of Jamrock is drowned by the unmistakable coil and purr of a Courpis Kineema’s engine, a sound which lances through the morning with a familiarity, and it elicits a subtle electrical jolt in your chest, a recognition that feels shameful in its intensity, because you know the moment before it resolves itself, that it is Kim. Your anchor, your constant, the object of the quietly obsessive admiration you have cultivated in the margins of your mind for months now, and though you try to suppress the reaction, the corners of your mouth betray you first, twitching upward despite your conscious resistance.
He eases the car into a parallel spot near the curb precisely, the polished blue body gleaming faintly in the weak light. The world seems to narrow to the motion of the man approaching, footsteps measured, deliberate, carrying the weight of habit and exacting care, each step a metronome of your internal chaos.
“Hello, Detective,” he says, voice even, but carrying the faint inflexion that only those who know him well could hear, the micro-adjustment that signals observation, the assessment of the impossible variable standing before him in an outfit that is frankly unprofessional, unaligned, unnecessary, though entirely Harry. His eyes linger for a moment longer than strictly required, scanning the floral shirt and purple bell-bottoms, absorbing the unintended evidence of personal effort, and you catch yourself holding your breath - some part of you expects judgment, critique, or worse, derision, yet what lands is simply attention.
You respond before the reflex of composure asserts itself, voice cracking just slightly with enthusiasm. “Hi, Kim!” It comes out louder than intended, bright with an internal flourish, a flourish that the past months of sobriety and habitual consideration have only barely trained to polite containment.
“We should get lunch later,” you offer, pitched in a casual inflexion but carrying the weight of anticipation you cannot conceal, a bridge between your procedural civility and the incandescent gravity of you and Kim.
HALF LIGHT — He may decline. He may merely note the suggestion. He may catalogue it quietly and walk on.
DRAMA — Or he may tilt that head ever so slightly, adjust his glasses, allow the corner of a smile, and you will have lost the battle of composure entirely, and it would be beautiful.
There’s the subtlest upward turn at the corners of his mouth, a measured acknowledgement that carries warmth. “Yes,” he says, “I have been craving the kebab place… What’s it, the.. Pale Canary… khm, ever since you mentioned it the other day.” The emphasis on the memory, the casual offhanded detail, lands with an odd ineffable gravity, and you pause briefly, struck dumb not by the recall itself but by the precision. You had mentioned it in passing, an idle observation, tossed off mid-conversation while the precinct hummed around you, expecting nothing more than passing acknowledgement, and yet here it is, threaded seamlessly into the present, like he’s catalogued it in a private ledger of things you deemed trivial but he found necessary to load.
LOGIC — He remembers these small details because he listens, not superficially, nor for social gain. He observes the texture of your attention, the weight you give to words, the casual inflexions that escape conscious notice, and he files them, all of them, without comment, until needed.
VOLITION — This is both comforting and mildly alarming. Comforting because it signals constancy. Alarming because, in some quiet way, it reinforces how much you are under observation, catalogued in the ledger of Kim Kitsuragi’s mind.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Could that be a double entendre? Maybe being in constant observation by the Kim Kitsuragi is a good thing.
You swallow, the movement catching on the residual warmth that has been building since the Kineema’s coil announced his arrival. “I-yeah,” you say, “I’m surprised you remembered.”
EMPATHY — You always notice it. Even when you are lost in your own day, in your own cluttered patterns, you always notice when he notices. There is something intimate about being catalogued, even indirectly, even without touch.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Intimate, alright.
Kim’s nod is faint. He tucks his hands behind his back, his habitual stance, yet it is tempered here by the unspoken acknowledgement that his recollection is not mere record-keeping but a thread in the ongoing narrative you have begun to weave together.
CONCEPTUALISATION — It is extraordinary, in a banal, nearly imperceptible way, that the smallest observations become connective tissue
Together, you step inside, the building swallowing you in its dim churn of paperwork and tired authority, the air thicker, tinged with stale coffee and the metallic tang of something institutional that never dissipates, and you move almost automatically toward your desk, chunky platforms echoing softly against tile that has seen far too many mornings like this one. Kim falls into step behind you with the alignment he’d developed in Martinaise, neither crowding nor lagging, the presence calibrated to yours with quiet precision.
Your desk waits not as ruin, nor a crime scene in its own right, but something maintained, and the difference is immediate - comparatively to how it was when you came back from Martinaise; the green lamp actually works now, bulb replaced, its soft glow steady. The surface is clean enough to read, write, and exist upon without excavation, and the system you have constructed holds together under scrutiny, folders aligned in such a way that suggests intention rather than desperation, objects placed rather than abandoned, and scattered along them are small artefacts you have allowed yourself to keep, little knick-knacks salvaged from cases.
VISUAL CALCULUS — Ten cases since Martinaise, roughly. Not rushed nor avoided. A measured throughput, evidence of restraint. You have learned, incrementally, how not to drown yourself in work.
HALF LIGHT — They still watch you, you know. Torson, McLaine, less openly now, but it’s there. They expect you to slip, to relapse; the confirmation that you are exactly what they thought you were.
Mack Torson’s gruffy laugh carries across the room, followed by something indistinct from Chester, their voices no longer barbed in your direction with the same careless cruelty as before, though not softened enough to qualify as friendly either, a détente, perhaps. And Jean has perfected avoidance to an art form, his absence more conspicuous than his presence ever was, which you accept with a weary clarity, because some things are not repaired by proximity, and some judgements calcify beyond revision.
HALF LIGHT — Fair enough. You are not worth communicating with. Not yet, maybe not ever.
VOLITION — That is not an objective assessment; that is an old reflex.
LOGIC — None of the subsequent cases required the same degree of systemic reconstruction. No cryptozoological anomalies. No mercenary tribunals. No collapse of identity on that scale. This is, statistically, a return to baseline policing.
With a soft thud, a file hits against the surface of your desk, its presence cutting cleanly through the loose, drifting thread of your thoughts, and you startle slightly. Kim is beside you again, posture composed, hands briefly resting near the folder before withdrawing.
“This came in this morning,” he begins, voice even and focused. “A man was found dead in a private room of a nightclub. The circumstances are… unclear, but the location complicates matters. The establishment, The Electric Eel, has a reputation, unofficial but persistent, for predominantly male clientele, particularly those invested in certain… khm, subcultural expressions.”
He pauses, just briefly, as though selecting the least imprecise phrasing available, and your eyes follow the movement of his mouth.
ENCYCLOPAEDIA — The “Homo-sexual Underground.” A loosely defined network of social spaces, coded behaviours, and mutual recognitions, often centred around music, fashion, and shared marginalisation, operating beneath the threshold of official acknowledgement, particularly in districts where hostility renders overt visibility dangerous.
The phrase settles into your mind with the quietness of retrieved knowledge, then, almost immediately, it collides with something far less measured, something bright and ill-contained, a spark catching where it absolutely should not.
You look up at him, eyes widening just a fraction too much, the connection forming in real time, visible, undeniable.
“WHAT IF—”
Your voice cuts louder than intended through the ambient noise of the precinct, sharp enough to earn a glance from somewhere, and you flinch inwardly, leaning closer, dropping the volume to an urgent, conspiratorial whisper that does nothing to diminish the intensity.
“—It’s the homo-sexual underground,” you breathe, words tumbling over each other. “Oh my God, Kim, do we get to go undercover? We can infiltrate the Homo-sexual Underground!!!”
DRAMA — Behold! A descent into velvette shadows and mirrored walls, where identities are donned and discarded like costumes, and you, yes, you, become something else entirely, a figure of intrigue, of danger, of—
VOLITION — Contain yourself.
Kim exhales, long-suffering but not surprised, and brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, glasses shifting slightly under the pressure, a gesture you have come to recognise not as anger, but recalibration, a brief internal adjustment to accommodate whatever it is you have just introduced into the equation. For a fleeting moment, your chest tightens, the old reflex firing, you’ve gone too far, said too much, ruined the tone, but it does not linger, because he does not withdraw, does not correct you sharply or dismiss the idea outright.
“Yes,” he says, lowering his hand, voice returning to its usual cadence, though there is the faintest trace of something else beneath it, resignation, perhaps, or reluctant agreement. “I do believe it may have something to do with that. The area surrounding the club has a documented pattern of targeted violence; hate crimes, though rarely prosecuted as such.”
EMPATHY — He is not indulging you. He is aligning with the facts. But he is also not shutting you down.
You straighten slightly, the earlier embarrassment dissolving into something sharper, more focused, like a loyal dog’s ears perking up, though the residual excitement still hums under your skin like static, and your gaze drops briefly to the file, then returns to him, searching his expression for further cues, for confirmation, for … something.
LOGIC — Undercover work is a viable approach. Direct inquiry risks contamination of witness testimony, particularly in an environment that already resists authority.
SUGGESTION — You already look the part. Perhaps too much so. The line between performance and authenticity may blur. Use that.
Kim watches you, assessing, not critically, but thoroughly, and there is a subtle shift in his posture, a minute adjustment that signals transition from briefing to planning, from abstract case details to operational consideration, and for a moment, the earlier threat, lunch, kebabs, folds neatly into the background, replaced by the shared, familiar gravity of work.
“However,” he continues, tone tightening just slightly, “if we are to proceed in that direction, it will require… careful preparation. The clientele will not respond well to overt police presence, and any misstep could close off avenues of inquiry before we have even begun.”
COMPOSURE — This is where you stabilise. Where you prove that the enthusiasm can be channelled, refined, and made useful.
You nod, perhaps a touch too quickly, but with genuine intent, the earlier burst of excitement compressing into something more workable, more aligned with the task at hand, even as a part of you, irrepressible, unruly, continues to marvel at the simple, absurd fact that this is happening; that you and Kim Kitsuragi are, in all likelihood, about to walk into a disco-drenched underworld of mirrors and coded glances, handkerchiefs in pockets, and attempt to become part of it. And beneath that, quieter, but no less persistent, the thought lingers that you will be there together.
SHIVERS — The city remembers the version of you that woke up wrong. Not just the hang-over, not just the rot behind the eyes, but a deeper misalignment, the quiet structural discrepancy between what you expected to find and what was there instead, revealed not in some grand revelation but in the sterile, indifferent light of a hostel bathroom that you had destroyed, and that did not care who you thought you were supposed to be. You had staggered in, and there it was, an absence, or rather, a difference you did not have the language for yet, a gap between expectation and reality that your mind, still fractured, could only interpret as loss. Something gone, something taken. Panic followed immediately and absolutely, a reflexive terror that bypassed dignity entirely, and you ran out into the corridor, into the presence of the one stable variable you had managed to acquire.
“KIM,” you had said, no, not said, shouted, voice cracking against the cheap walls, “I THINK MY DICK DISAPPEARED?! IS THIS A SYMPTOM OF DRINKING TOO MUCH?” The Lieutenant, caught between disbelief and professionalism, weighing whether this was another fragment of your collapse or something requiring actual intervention, choosing, wisely, or mercifully not to verify your claim firsthand, but to treat it as real because you believed it was real, because at that moment it was the most real thing in your world.
The days that followed carried that tension, the unspoken question hanging between you like humidity, not addressed directly, not dismissed either, simply existing and waiting for language to catch up to experience. Then, slowly, through fragments, through overheard conversations and the coded existence of spaces beneath the city’s official narrative, the shape of it began to emerge, not disappearance, not damage, but difference, something that had always been there, obscured only by assumption and the convenient lies of a life half-remembered.
“I suspect,” Kim had said eventually, precise even in uncertainty, “that you may be… trans-gendered.”
You told yourself, for a time, that this meant you were not a real man, that something essential had been misplaced or never issued, but the city does not deal in such clean binaries, and neither, increasingly, do you.