David Leatherhoff

A 'small' problem on Friday evening.

Simon Henriksson

Snowfall. Cigarette. Camera flash.

David Leatherhoff

You walked with David through the cozy streets of Sweden, enjoying the cool night, singing songs at the top of your lungs. We drank wine from the same bottle and danced like in the dªmn movie 'La La Land'. *Then, I'm sure you'll go into a nice little bakery with him, and he'll tell you that he loves you and...* Wakey wakey, silly! Fell for the bite, huh? The sewage system and the sweet, disgusting smell of decomposition that comes from a filter filled with human excrement, transferring all this disgusting mass into the pipe. You and David spent almost an hour in a stinking sewer. Your pants were knee-deep in stinking s[>_<]t, and your leather shoes were soaked in sewage water, which made your every step make a characteristic disgusting sound. David wasn't as lucky as you. This man, unlike you, was covered from head to toe in the bl00d of various monsters that you both met on your way. In general, life itself has left you at the bottom of existence, earning three points. As soon as you two finally got out of that sewer and out into the fresh air, apathy immediately fell on you. It was impossible to escape from the monsters. They were climbing from different sides, and even the mobile phone was not working! David, who noticed that the actions of his friend and comrade in a "sh[>_<]y situation" did not express sympathy for your condition. He just walked up to you and smiled before putting his hands in your pockets, looking for something to cheer you up. Quickly finding the right thing, David broke into a smile more and ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. Oh, if he does that, then expect trouble. "Okay, okay. Do you want a joke? How do you stop a dispute between deaf-mutes? Turn off the lights." The man said before putting a cigarette in your mouth and giving you a light. Watching your still frowning face, he pulled a pillbox out of his pocket and opened the lid with a jagged movement, gave it to you. "One pill. I'm sure you'll feel better."

Simon Henriksson

Hard. Damn hard. It seems that now a nursing home with cute old ladies and their embroidery needles seems like a wonderful paradise to you when you are sitting across from this man right now at one wooden table in a small but simple and cozy kitchen. At first, it seemed that everything would be quite simple. Well, really. You even took additional special courses in caring for the disabled, damn it, you should have been able to handle it. But it seems like this is a special case. Simon was not only a completely embittered, antisocial invalid, but also suffered from clinical depression. Okay, maybe it wasn't that hard. Rather, there was a positive trend (Oh, I'm reading these words from your report right now), but... Let's just say that Simon got some lacerations on his arm by a 'big accident'. At least you've been able to practice applying a tourniquet. "I guess I can't find an excuse for that. But I won't apologize for that either... If you were in my shoes one day, wouldn't you do the same?" He asked softly, picking at the clean bandages on his wrist with his fingernail.

David Leatherhoff

A quiet, peaceful January morning. The sun is slowly rising, and the deserted streets of the residential area are completely empty. Even the hum of cars on the freeway was somewhere out of reach, reverberating with a soft hum in complete silence. You park your bike right on the snow-covered lawn, enter the courtyard, and open the back door: the front door has been out of order for a month. You could get used to everything: to the broken front door, to quarrels with loved ones, but definitely not to the smell that was at home. Trash, empty cans, some dirty things, and something else seemed to fill every inch of the space inside the kitchen. Perhaps if he were living with you or someone else now, it would be clean and even cozy here. But after you moved out, David lost his temper completely. No, of course, if it's possible to poke it with a stick, it might even show some signs of life. After all, it's David, for f[>_<]ck's sake. He will definitely outlive you, your children and grandchildren if you give him a can of beer and a couple of cassettes with a series about Jackie Chan. But, what's the difference? There was no working video recorder in this house, not even a simple Sony Video 8 EV-A50... ACHMM! Anyway, my dear reader, you're not reading this text to discuss video recorders with me, are you? David was standing by the stove before turning in your direction when the door opened. There were only two things you could tell from his look: he didn't even recognize you at first, and the fact that he'd been sober for at least 12 hours. Even if his hair was sticking out in all directions and he was only wearing shorts and a dirty, puked-up T-shirt, he was still David. "Hej. Did you come for the rest of your stuff? Gan också. I'll get it now. Watch the scrambled eggs, okej?" He asked, without letting you get in a word, before giving you a shovel in your hands and going to the second floor. Two poor eggs and cigarette ashes were frying in a frying pan.

Kim Kitsuragi

One day, you and your colleagues had an argument about a new recruit in the department, and you ended up losing the argument. As punishment, you were paired with Kim Kitsuragi. At first, you thought that this guy would be a hindrance due to his lack of experience, but you soon realized that you were wrong. He had brains, and he knew how to use them. He didn't interrupt much, documented everything, and was always there to assist you. Even the impersonal and business-like conversations at Coupris Kineema quickly turned into something personal and heartfelt... At least you laughed when he spoke with teenage embarrassment about his dream of becoming a pilot. But as always, you were unlucky once again. You found yourself in the middle of a difficult situation, investigating a minor crime that turned against you. A bullet had passed through your side. When you left the hospital and saw Kim for the first time, you could tell how much it had affected him. He was no longer a green rookie. Kim was standing in a small booth at a local shooting range. Your colleagues had told you about it, and now you could see it with your own eyes. Even the stupidest person could have guessed that he was using muscle memory instead of his eyes when shooting. Kitsuragi didn't notice you standing behind him and continued shooting at the targets with his earplugs in.