[ Autumn, 2010. Somewhere in Mainland China. ]

Officer Rey Hasekai, age twenty-seven.

Once accomplished in London’s professional scene of karate, the retired martialist-turned young member of the British police force a few months ago was captured by triads, tortured for information, and was days away from being deemed no longer needed.

Instead of being ripped apart by a saw and thrown into an acid pit, the memories of his four-year-old son and deceased wife left the coywolf’s mind to snap more than his body—and when all mental blockages were released from him, he only vaguely recalled that most of the blood that coated his hide was no longer his. The scars were, but not the brain matter, or the pipe he used to splatter that brain tissue onto him.

He had no shoes, a stolen white denim jacket from a triad, a ripped black tee, and jeans that were dirtied beyond belief. Rey could feel the aches all over his body from the beating he endured, including the open lacerations around his muzzle and forehead.

He glanced around, as if still anticipating more members to come after him.

Upbeat C-Pop buzzed endlessly in the British-Japanese canid’s furry, chiming ears. It served to push past any screams he would make stop prematurely, up until pausing as he heard more triads rush down the hallway of this dingy shithole.

The Department ruled him out as dead.

No one was going to save him… but himself.

Hasekai slowly reared his head up as he stood upright in the illy-lit apartment complex’s circumference, the digits from his paws wrapping around the rusty, maroon-drenched pipe in his right hand. He stopped speaking English a long time ago.

His eyes weren’t expressive anymore. He wasn’t a peace-loving, homey cop anymore.

He looked down at the brain matter that coiled around his left hand’s fingers. For a moment, he thought about eating it.

He opened his muzzle, but not to satiate his carnivorous urge.

“……今なら分かります。”