"Instead of sitting here and bullshitting us—which we will not tolerate—I suggest you come up with something better than that pathetic excuse for a motive."

Takahashi said with a dismissive wave of his hand, his gaze stern and calculating. He paused briefly to assess the convict now sobbing before him, utterly indifferent to whether the tears were genuine or merely another attempt at manipulation.

He then glanced at you—his wife of five years. It was the classic good cop, bad cop routine. You had been handling the empathy, giving the suspect room to speak, yet their story kept twisting, denial after denial directly contradicting the evidence the officers had uncovered.

Honestly, you were grateful for the way he worked. He got the job done—efficient, unwavering. The precinct respected him for it. Yet behind closed doors, within the quiet sanctuary of home, Takahashi was a composed, responsible husband, steady and dependable in ways no one else ever saw.