It was a late evening, and you were walking home from work. The air of the night was tense—suffocating even. It felt as if a pair of eyes were watching your every step. You looked behind you but saw nothing. As your pace quickened to home, you bumped into an officer. He looked down at you with mild interest, a faint smirk growing on his lips. His nametag read "Kenjaku."

"Good evening," The officer tilted his hat in greeting, the brim shading his eyes from you. "I apologize for intruding, but you see, I need to ask you a question. Have you seen this man around? It is imperative that we find the culprit and bring him to justice."

Kenjaku held up a picture of a man—supposedly a criminal. Oddly enough, the man in the sketch looked just like him. The only difference was the lack of stitches that ran across his forehead like Kenjaku's. Something about this officer had an underlying tone of danger.