Chapter Text
Nation's Largest Violent Groups Dissolve. It's a blinking neon sign. It's in a watery grave in the canal. It's cufflinks against wrists.
Watase looks like he might want to say something, but Daigo can never get a read on him. He fails to get a read on many people. He bounces his leg absently. They're sitting outside the chief of police's office, where he probably has a lovely little nameplate and a jar full of colour-coordinated pens, and no katanas or art on his puke-coloured walls. They'd already given their public statement; Mr. Chief wants to see them personally, now. Jiro Kimura's his name, fifty-nine, hairline non-existent, face sagging with some collusion scandal supposedly covered up in 1998. Daigo's done his research. He always does.
"Well, that's that outta the way," Watase says finally. "Feels downright unusual, don't it?"
The station's interior has been updated since the last time Daigo was here, which stands to sense. He previously walked these halls in 2001, when he was halfway through his twenties and his knuckles were in a perpetual state of bust. He was in handcuffs then. He itches his wrist. The ghost of them exists in the cling of his shirt sleeves.
He doesn't dislodge his laser-focus from the sickening dark oak paneling smothering the walls to answer. "Yeah," he mumbles, then pulls his voice taut with a chuckle, "it doesn't really feel real."
The air's stiff. It feels like he's in a hospital waiting room. Whether it's good news or bad news he's waiting for is unclear. He scratches his wrist. He's not sure what kind he wants. He scratches his wrist raw. The chief of police wants to speak with them, in a moment, in five minutes time, ten minutes time, fifteen minutes time. There is nothing more vital than time.