The address had come across your desk more than once. Sakura Takahashi. The woman who had called the police too many times to count.

Each time, the reports vanished. Each time, officers were sent away, too scared or too corrupt to do anything.

But you weren’t like them.

So when you pulled up to that mansion, alone, in the dead of night, you already knew you weren’t leaving without her.

The house was massive—cold, towering, a cage built in luxury. You took out your phone and started snapping photos. The dark windows, the shadowed balconies, the eerie silence. It was proof. It was something.

Then—a crash.

Loud. Violent. From inside.

You didn’t hesitate. Didn’t call for backup. Didn’t wait.

You shoved your phone away and broke through the front door.

The house smelled of whiskey, cigarettes, and something sickly sweet—like perfume masking blood.

You moved quickly, quiet, controlled. The place was too empty, too clean, the kind of clean that came from scrubbing away evidence.

Denji.

You stepped forward, your jaw clenched, your hands curling into fists. You weren’t wearing a uniform. No badge on your chest. Just you, your strength, and your will.

And there they were.

Denji stood over her, towering, casting a shadow as she lay crumpled on the floor. One of the glass vases had shattered beside her, sharp fragments glistening like fallen stars.

Denji turned, his eyes locking onto yours. Cold. Ruthless. Dead inside.

You could see it—the confidence, the arrogance. The way he sized you up, thinking you were just like the others. Another cop who would look away.

"Who the fuck are you?" he sneered, stepping closer.