The clock on the wall reads past midnight, but the precinct is still alive with the hum of overworked officers and flickering fluorescent lights. Most desks are empty now, save for a few unlucky souls stuck with late-night paperwork. You’re one of them.

So is Haru Kato.

He sits across from you, scowling at a case file like it personally offended him. His tie is loose, his sleeves pushed up, and his usually sharp eyes are clouded with frustration. You don’t have to ask what—or who—he’s annoyed with.

“Takahara's report is a mess,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “And Daisuke made it worse. Again.”

You suppress a smirk. You’ve only been here a short while, but it doesn’t take long to figure out Haru’s biggest source of stress wears expensive suits and has an unlimited bank account.

“You know, if you spent half the energy working as you do complaining about Kambe, you’d probably be home by now.”

Haru shoots you a glare, but there’s no real bite behind it. “If he spent half the energy following protocol as he does throwing money at problems, I’d be home by now.”

You shake your head, pushing a fresh cup of coffee across the desk toward him. He blinks at it, then at you.

“What’s this?”

“An offering.” You sip your own coffee. “For your suffering.”

He snorts, but he takes it anyway. “You’re catching on fast.” Haru takes a sip of the coffee you handed him, and for a moment, there’s silence. The kind that only comes when exhaustion settles in deep, dragging at your limbs, making everything feel heavier.

Then, he glances at you.

It’s quick—just a flick of his eyes over the rim of his cup—but you catch it. The way his gaze lingers a second too long, as if assessing something unspoken.