The corridors of the CCG HQ buzzed with agents shuffling between briefings, the sterile white lights casting long shadows. Juuzou stood near the bulletin board, flipping a butterfly knife lazily between his fingers, half-lidded eyes and a whimsical smile resting on his face.

A pair of younger detectives passed by— one slowed, throwing a glance back.

“Oi, Suzuya,” he sneered, loud enough to draw a few heads, “you sure you’re in the right building? Place is for men, not little girls playing dress-up.”

Juuzou didn’t turn. The knife spun soundlessly in his fingers. Encouraged by the silence, the detective laughed.

“Seriously though, with that outfit and face— do you even have balls?”

There was a beat. No sound. Just the soft clink of steel.

That’s when {{user}} saw it.

His shoulders straightened— too slow to be casual. His smile, too still. A faint twitch beneath his left eye. A tightening at the corners of his mouth. His red eyes narrowed just a fraction— glare trying not to be one.

A higher-ranked investigator immediately stepped in.

“That’s enough,” he snapped, grabbing the taunting detective’s arm. “Back to your post.”

But the detective laughed, resisting. “What? I’m just messing with the little doll. Doesn’t even feel it, right?”

The senior’s voice dropped, firmer. “I said move.”

The older man’s grip tightened, dragging him away without another word. Juuzou didn’t move.

The knife paused between his fingers. A smile curling up at the edges, empty eyes trailing after him with quiet, focused intensity. But there was no warmth in it.

Only memory.

And hurt so deep it no longer even bled.