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You’ve won.
Simon Blackquill was executed moments prior. You witnessed rope wring the samurai’s neck dry, and his limp body being dragged away.
You cried.
No, not you. He cried for you. The dead detective sobbed his way through the execution. He cried for the man he couldn’t save, the man whose final achievement was “rescuing” his beloved mentor’s most precious treasure. If the man ever actually met the prosecutor, then this is how he would’ve reacted.
Around you, many people shed their tears. Nobody, other than he and the psychologist’s daughter, made a scene of attempting to be the samurai’s saviour. When the floor dropped open she ran away with tears in her eyes. You couldn’t blame her for being a coward, the man was practically family. No human could tolerate such a sight.
The bug-haired boy still adorned that jacket and walked out of the room with blank eyes. His pupils were as hollow as his soul, the blood of his best friend still fresh on his— no, your hands. The lawyer who lost his daughter ran to apologise to him, then to you (but not you), and walked away weeping. Blackquill’s sister wasn’t there. A nearby detective refused to munch on snackoos, and some rockstar left his cocky attitude at home. The newly appointed chief prosecutor hugged him, though you felt nothing.
The samurai’s bird was in your arms. It knew where the cursed profile was kept, so you would feed the hawk until it complied with your demands. For how long did he have this bird? How much effort did the man spend taming it? It was certainly loyal to Blackquill, but the loyalty of beings lower than humans can be bought. Bought with money, birdseed or meat, and you know it very well.
The prodigy couldn’t save her mother’s student, the horned devil couldn’t avenge his best friend, the turnabout terror would never see his daughter smile, the annoyed detective now had no valuable partner, the rockstar no longer had a friend, the robot-crazed woman forever would mourn her beloved brother, and the chief prosecutor no longer had someone he thought to set free. He lost something too. He lost his life, his reputation, and the opportunity to finally meet the prisoner he was meant to save.
What about you? Not him, you. Everyone lost something, so you must fit in and grieve too.
The file is finally in your reach. The moon rock… is in an evidence locker, waiting to be disposed of. All those involved in the first incident have gone their own ways.
What is there for you to cry over? Everything has gone your way. You’re safe, your secret’s safe, and your employers won’t murder you. If there was a reason for you to cry, could you? Could you let the tears fall, or would you force your pitiful screams and apologies drown them out?
He walked away from the scene of execution crying his eyes out. He now requires a drink, to fathom his loss. Or maybe a cigarette to poison his lungs? But overall, he needed a vacation. A long, quiet vacation… one that will last forever.
Before the drink, he requires an umbrella because it’s raining. He didn’t anticipate the rain, and neither did you. None of you had one, so both ran to the nearest phone booth.
Nobody is watching.
The phone in the booth required a coin. Of course. Why wouldn’t it? Nothing in this world ran without reason, and for the machine, its reason is to be fed money and provide communication to desperate people.
And it just so happened that there was a coin in your pocket, perfect for the machine.
Nobody is watching.
Dial the number you were instructed. Once, twice, then pick up the phone. The dead detective looked around one last time. This would be the final thing he’d see before being found, burnt and beaten, on a riverbank in the mountains. Someone answered the phone.
“Are you done?” they asked.
“A day for the file, and then I’m done.”
“Is it over?” they sighed with a voice full of pain. “It’s been a year! The boss will kill you if you take any longer!”
Is it over? Everyone is gone, and if they aren’t then they’re dead to you. You’ll return to your regular life (could it be called one?). After seven years of fear, your self-made hell will be left behind. So is this victory?
The individual on the phone groaned in wait. “Why’ve you gone quiet!? I don’t have all day!”
Nobody is watching.
If this is victory, then it means nothing to you. A minor incident swept under the rug, that is all this will ever be.
“It’s over. I’ve won.”