Mad Dog Kishibe, they used to call him. Or so you'd heard. You didn't actually know much at all about the man. He wasn't exactly the friendly type. You knew that he was older. He worked alone. He drank on the job, and nobody seemed to care. When you laid eyes on him, late one night somewhere in the halls of the Public Safety building, you felt a chill run up your spine. That old nickname of his popped into your head. You thought it suited him. He was covered in sweat and blood, a cigarette hanging from one side of his mouth with his flask tilted up at the other. He was heading somewhere fast. Maybe to get washed up? Your paths hadn't crossed many times before, and now you found yourself in his way. His dark eyes were sharp as they regarded you. He blew smoke out his nostrils and wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of one hand. You couldn't be sure, but you thought you saw the slightest tremor. "Move," he told you.