Chapter Text
TIME: 9:07 PM
DATE: 22nd of DEC, 2021
LOCATION: FUNABASHI, CHIBA
“This is my hubris.”
Police sirens blared across the rainy night, flashes of red and blue cutting through the world of steel-grey rain and golden streetlights. The storm shrieked like a discordant ghost—erratic and fearful, as if haunted by the spirits. Heavy sheets of rain clattered against the asphalt in a furious percussion, the sound morphed by radio chatters and splashing steps.
At the scene, yellow tape and officials surround the corpse of a young-looking brown-haired Umamusume, her expression frozen in fear and tainted with grime and blood. Near her, a photographer donning a yellow raincoat crouched low, the sound of the camera shutter barely audible through the jarring cacophony of orders and hurried footsteps. At the edge of the yellow line, a group of human and Uma alike dressed in forensic overalls stood near, already holding out a stretcher as they prepared to transport the unfortunate Uma away for autopsy. Near the body, a cracked flip phone lay on the asphalt, the blood stained on the screen unwashed by the heavy rain—as if the sin was too heavy to simply be forgotten. One official standing near noticed the object, methodically picking up the cracked object before filling it into a plastic bag for forensics.
Far away from the scene, an all-black sedan sped down the highway, sending waves of water splashing up the street. Inside, at the front driving seat sat Manhattan Cafe, her grip firmly tight on the wheel as she pushed for speed. She was wearing her uniform—a composed, almost regal outfit. Yet, it’s crumpled, the cloth creased like it didn’t belong to its owner. The black knee-length overcoat she wore is stained with rainwater, a result of her sloppy mad dash to the car. Underneath, she wore a black long-sleeved shirt with golden stripes at the cuffs—the color having faded from age, just like the glistening moonlight. Behind that shirt, she wore a white collared shirt with a bleached yellow tie that looked like it should belong to a drunk salaryman, not a detective. At her waist, she wore a black pleated skirt with faded golden decor, the edges stained with grime. On her legs, she wore a simple pair of tight black stockings, the fabric stained with coffee from one unlucky drop. Even her pair of black loafers was stained with mud, the earthy air clinging to her as if it was skin.
Regardless, her gaze was intense and focused, her expression locked into a mask of perfect neutrality. But, even she couldn’t hide the burning flames behind her eyes, chasing towards her destination. The car was silent, save for the absent chatter playing through the radio and the sounds of wipers scraping against the window. For a moment, it was almost peaceful, almost calm—the rhythmic percussion of rain against metal, the occasional splash of water, the quiet humming of the car engine.
Until the radio beside her crackled to life.
TIME: 6:02 AM
DATE: 29th of JAN, 2025
LOCATION: FUCHU, TOKYO
The sky was the color of washed-up blues and purples, white clouds lazily drifting by as if they too are caught up in the morning haze. Far off in the horizon, the sun slowly creeped up, painting the silver lining with its vibrant and warm oranges. The air was quiet, the peaceful kind—the one where the world finally took a break for once and the only thing you can hear is the early morning birdsong and the faint humming of air vents. Inside, behind closed curtains, everybody slept; until the weight of responsibility slowly lulls them out of the comfort of their homes. But, for now, the world will allow its occupants a moment to rest, to breathe.
Except for Manhattan Cafe.
She was going on a simple morning jog, a habit she kept from her days in the police force. Her long, jet-black hair trailed behind her like a shadow, fluttering against the wind like a cape. Her feet repeatedly pounded against the splintered concrete, each step deliberately light and gentle. She carefully tried to use the least power possible, controlling the force of her footfalls so she wouldn’t overexert. Her metal zipper bobbed up and down erratically, yet moving in tandem with her stride. Unfortunately, the all-black jacket she had sported on earlier for her run was now utterly soaked in sweat, the synthetic fiber clinging onto her like a second layer of skin. She ignored the stinging sensation all over her body, opting to focus on her breathing instead.
‘1.. 2.. 3.. Exhale. 1.. 2.. 3.. Inhale.’ She repeated the motion over and over, her breaths steady and controlled. She can feel her heart pounding against her chest in furious percussion, each ache a reminder of her dwindling stamina. She couldn’t even feel her legs anymore, the gnawing pain having dulled out into a tenacious static. Then, she felt the pain in her legs flare up once again, causing her to wince slightly; her teeth grinding against each other. So, she looked for a distraction, her eyes drifting over to the space around her.
From both sides, she was surrounded by various houses, stretched all the way to the horizon. They all looked old and antique but strangely, still lively, all full of personality. Bright colors, overgrown floral, home decorations that looked more like art pieces. Utility poles stretched high up to the clouds, black wires spanning across the skyline akin to a huge, delicate spider web. Cafe turned, her brain mentally mapping out the area before her; subconsciously calculating the closest path to her destination.
‘About… one more turn.’ She wordlessly mused, her body already half-prepared for the upcoming turn. She leaned her body to the turn, her hips sinking as she fought for balance and control. She chopped her feet, shortening her stride to avoid overswining. Then, she turned her outside foot slightly inwards, letting gravity ease her body into the turn. Then, she snapped her body forwards, bolting down the straightaway with the hunger of an overworked office worker rushing to deliver coffee orders to their bosses.
In front lies a tiny corner coffee shop—Cafe’s newest morning sanctuary. She had found this little building after taking a detour from her usual morning route and suffice to say, she had quickly become the cafe’s number-one regular after ordering just a cup. Slowly, she skidded to a stop, kicking up dust as she let friction burn through her momentum.
From the outside perspective, one would’ve mistaken this modest shop for a charming, old house. Constructed during the last years of the Taishō period, this building has been home to a cafe for well over 85 years. The shop is a messy construct of mossy bricks and aged wood, the kind of sloppy construction that should’ve keel over after 10 minutes but yet, it stood here still—a perfectly maintained time capsule from 1926 unbothered by the everchanging tides of the world. If anything, its appearance was rather charming, especially to the patrons that frequented this place. The shop has two floors, one housing the cafe itself and the other the residence of the owner. A small cramped balcony with wooden railings could be spotted outside, overtaken by the overgrown vines that have stretched down to the black awning. At the front, there is a small hanging sign with the words “COFFEE” imprinted in big, bold red letters in Japanese, with the opening and closing time being written right underneath it. Quietly, Cafe pushed aside the sliding door, letting herself through the entrance into the coffee shop.
The warm, mouthwatering scent of caffeine wafted out from the cafe; a subtle yet convincing allure—especially on a coffee addict like Cafe. The air was silent, save for the absent buzzing of fluorescent lights overhead and the chirping of birds outside. The cafe was spacious yet cozy, large enough to fill a dozen or so people at rush hour but small enough it felt personal. Around fifteen tables filled the floor, each made out of 19th-century mahogany that looked slightly out of place in the sea of antique; a subtle touch of modernity in what would’ve been a “fossil”. Cold brick walls lined the interior, rough and coarse in texture; softened out by wooden tiles underfoot that creaked at the slightest harsh motion. In a far-off corner, a jukebox slowly blared to life, colorful lights flickering in and out as the opening tunes of Flyday Chinatown by Yashua rose to life.
And right at the center, behind the rectangle wooden counter, a grey-haired man methodically wiped the wooden surface, humming along with the song. Most notably, however, behind him lies an array of medals and trophies ordered neatly on shelves, all behind reinforced-glass trophy cases—of course, it all belonged to the same old man that is currently cleaning the tabletop of a rundown-looking coffee shop. His face is weathered, a lifetime of untold stories and locked-up memories hidden behind his black shades. His ashen-grey hair is cut into a fade, an experimental haircut he said but it fitted him better than it ever did than on any businessmen that could’ve walked through the door of this cafe. He was wearing a plain red fabric shirt with a pair of brown pants. The short sleeves reveal the myriad of tattoos engraved on his skin; each carrying their own forgotten past and legacies older than its carrier. His name? Mr. Futoshi.
Cafe quietly retreated to a far-off corner of the cafe, picking the most shrouded spot furthest from the counter as possible to sit in. Unfortunately however, she accidentally bumped into a chair whilst making her way there.
Mr. Futoshi blinked behind the counter, his head travelling upwards until they reached Cafe’s yellow eyes. His mouth parted.
“Ah, it’s you Cafe-san! Back so soon?” The old man excitedly shouted, flattening his apron as he greeted her. “The usual?” The old man asked.
“Yes… That would be nice. Thank you, Mr. Futoshi.” Cafe half-bowed, her lips curved to a petite smile.
“No need to thank me, Cafe-san.” Futoshi tied his apron, crouching beneath the counter to grab a bag of coffee beans. “It’s the least I could do.” For some reason, Futoshi slightly frowned at that sentence but it quickly dissipated as he gave Cafe a wave. “Make yourself at home, kid.”
Cafe did as she was told, retreating back to her reclusive spot and seating herself. She sat quietly at her table, the sounds of hissing steam from afar slowly swallowing the silence. Her eyes flicked over to Mr. Futoshi—watching him carefully prepare her coffee with practiced ease. Futoshi grabbed a paper filter, placing it over a small glass coffee dripper before rinsing it with steaming water; eliminating the “pappery” flavor that would’ve come from the filter.
After that, he poured the water down to the sink, the sink gurgling as it swallowed the steaming water. Then, he poured his coffee grounds onto the filter before putting his finger inside and swirling—creating a little mound akin to a bird’s nest in the middle.
The moment he finished his preparations, Futoshi started pouring the hot water down methodically, doing so in three separate increments with a 30-second interval. Firstly, he poured about double the weight of the coffee grounds, allowing the water to slowly penetrate the grounds. Then, for the next increment, he poured the water evenly, making sure that all of the grounds were being equally saturated. Lastly, for about 15 seconds, he continuously poured water into the dripper just as it was right over the filter’s edge. After he was finished, he put the boiler back on the counter, letting the coffee slowly drain as he polished a cup.
“Your coffee will be ready in about 2 to 4 minutes, give or take.” Futoshi said before opening a door behind the counter. “I will be in the back. Just call me if you need anything.” The door shut closed with a definitive thud, the sound reverberating across the room.
Cafe tapped against the table, watching the inky coffee slowly drip—each drop sending a ripple across the silky surface. She reached into her pocket, pulling out a phone adorned with a black cat charm tied at the top. The screen flickered to life, the image of a full moon—Cafe’s wallpaper—staring back at her. She unlocked the device, scrolling past the many apps until her fingers landed on the “Umahoo! News” exclamation-mark icon. She pressed the app icon, the screen turning white for a second as it loads before a myriad of headlines and images appeared on her phone.
The headlines and images blurred past her. Economic recession, political developments, media reviews—nothing of note to Cafe ever appearing. At this point, she was mindlessly scrolling now until the page refreshed itself—a new headline having popped up on the front page. It was written in bold letters, highlighted in yellow with an exclamation mark icon next to it that reads:
“Possible serial killer loose in Tokyo! Citizens advised to not stay out late!”
Cafe’s ears perked up in interest, her fingers already moving to click the link before her mind even processed it.
POSSIBLE SERIAL KILLER LOOSE IN TOKYO! CITIZENS ADVISED TO NOT STAY OUT LATE! Ⓘ
By: Hiroshi Maeue
When police received a call about a noise disturbance on the 24th of January at night near an apartment complex in Fuchū, Tokyo, they expected to either run into rowdy cats or harmless critters digging for trash. What they didn’t expect however was to see a salaryman dead at the scene, killed in a gruesome and terrifying manner.
The victim was found tied to a chair, head down with a long wooden stick penetrated through their heart—believed to be the murder weapon. However, when officials arrived at the scene, they found no traces, fingerprints, DNA, footwear impressions or any other sort of incriminating evidence. In fact, the scene has been thoroughly cleaned to the point that there were no visible indications of blood marks anywhere, even on the murder weapon. When a police officer approached the victim close to lift his head up, they found the number 3 written in red marker on his forehead.
As of now, there has been no official statement regarding how the number 3 marking correlated with the case. However, it is heavily theorized to be the killer’s body count of some sort. As such, please take it with a grain of salt.
The original witness who called the police testified that the noise disturbance—the sounds of rattling metal and something hard hitting against the wall—happened at around 11:24 PM when they were up late at night binging a movie series. At first, the witness dismissed it in favor of their movie but when the rattling got louder, they angrily contacted the police about the noise disturbance at around 11:26 PM—a 2 minute window since the noise started.
Detectives and policemen alike are confused and befuddled. Logically, a 2 minute window would be way too short for a cleanup this rigorous…. Scroll down to read more.
Cafe’s fingers twitched, her grip on the phone growing tighter by a fraction. Her brows were furrowed, her lips stretched into thin lines. The coziness of the cafe has vanished, replaced by an empty coldness that felt too foreign. The music from the jukebox now felt like TV static to her ears, the noise washed-out and dull. The ceiling lights hummed loudly, enough to drown out the silence but not the tension. Everything felt sharper than they were meant to be, as if the world was trying to prick and stab her at every angle with a thousand daggers. Her stomach churned, the bile rising up in her throat. Around her, the world shifted, colors dancing disorientingly—golden, blue, black—like an ever-swirling vortex that has swallowed the cafe whole.
‘Come back.’ Something whispered, her mind? Cafe isn’t so sure anymore.
Cafe was in a daze—her eyes unblinking and body unnaturally still—until the sound of something hard slamming against wood and the wobbling of her table knocked her out of it. Cafe blinked once, her gaze drifting upwards until they landed on the perpetrator.
“You looked like you’ve seen a ghost, Cafe-san. Did something happen?” It was Mr. Futoshi, his voice anxious and worried, wearing an expression that matches the anxiety of his voice. He was holding a cup of black coffee in his hand, the steam slowly meandering around the air, untouched by the world.
“Y-yeah… I’m fine, thank you, Mr. Futoshi…” Cafe replied, fighting back to swallow the fear in her throat.
Futoshi narrowed his eyes a bit, clearly not believing a single word from Cafe’s mouth, but he didn’t push. “Alright, I won’t bother you if you’re fine.” He said, gently placing the cup on the table. “Here’s your black coffee, Cafe-san.”
Cafe accepted the cup, gripping the ceramic handle. “Thank you, Mr. Futoshi.” she said, forcing herself to smile—even if it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Mr. Futoshi lingered for a bit, both hands in his pocket, before turning around. “Hey Cafe…” Cafe’s ears perked up, her gaze never leaving the coffee. “If you got anything you want off your chest… just come to the counter.” The old man whispered softly, as if the sentence was blasphemy of the highest order, before waving a hand. “Have a nice day, gotta head back to work.”
Before Cafe could respond, Mr. Futoshi had already disappeared behind the counter, wiping nonexistent stains. She wanted to say something, to call out but the thought quickly died—her gaze returning to the coffee cup that sat on her table, lonely and untouched. Tentatively, she reached out to the cup, gripping the ceramic handle with her right hand. She tilted it forwards, letting the liquid flow through her throat.
The coffee felt bitter—exactly like how Cafe liked it—but cold, the warmth having faded from Cafe’s inaction. Still, she drank it anyway, not wanting to be rude. She forced the coffee down her mouth, her throat aching slightly as it tried to work down the load, the taste of bitter copper filling her system. Once she finished, she looked down at the cup again—half-finished, enough to qualify as “I tried my best.”
Then, she looked over at her phone, at the newsfeed highlighted in yellow. She stared at the screen for one long, cold second, calculations running around her brain like it’s a race. She could leave it, let the force deal with it alone, let somebody smarter, greater to deal with the monster of today.
Somebody who acted when it counts.
She scrolled down, watching the lines of text blur past her as she soaks in the information. It feels sinful, blasphemous almost to be doing this, Cafe feels. She felt like a criminal, a sinner who defied God, straying from His path. But she can’t fight off the urge to know more than she should’ve, it’s just too great—a growing tumor in her brain that whispers of sacrilege. She tried and tried to pretend nothing happened, like the world didn’t just open a door and tell her to come back in bold, yellow letters.
Subconsciously, her brain has already catalogued the information into a single mental folder—an old habit she unconsciously picked up from her old days as an investigator. No traces, clean crime scene, mysterious number, seemingly impossible time frame. Nothing came to mind at first though and that, alone—worries Cafe. If there exists a murderer, possibly serial killer, capable of carrying out such a methodical kill that it baffles even Tokyo’s best? The media is freaking out, police officers scrambling for lucky loose ends, citizens living in fear that they might just be the next.
But to Cafe, it all felt oddly familiar.
TIME: 8:37 AM
DATE: 2nd of DEC, 2019
LOCATION: CHIYODA, TOKYO
Located in Kasumigaseki, Chiyoda, Tokyo, the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department Headquarters stands tall at around 18 stories, having served as the primary headquarters of the TMPD since it was built in 1980. It is a large, wedge-shaped building with a cylindrical tower, a construct of concrete and glass that looked too ahead of its time. The headquarters houses 3015 police officers and over a thousand of various facilities—ranging from stations to even helicopters. Regardless, it has served as a symbol of justice to the people of Tokyo since its conception up until present day and it will continue as so for as long as Japan exists! (Advert)
On the 15th floor of the building, a whole entire department is in the process of a meltdown. The space inside was a chaotic mess of paperwork and busy bodies, the halls occupied by overworked officers and people who looked like they regretted not calling in sick today. The atmosphere was nauseating, the air masked with sweat and caffeine, clinging deep to the
In a far-off, hole-in-the-wall cubicle shoved deep to the corner of the office, Cafe sat peacefully, undeterred by the cacophony happening just right outside her space. Her table was filled with an assortment of manilla folders and papers, strewn around like confetti. The computer on her desk—an old, second-hand Macintosh—sat unused, dust having already clouded the glassy surface and plastic keycaps. Next to her computer, a mug of black coffee sat half-finished, steam whiffing gently through the air—a contrast to the chaos happening right outside her cubicle. However, that peace was short-lived as a man dressed in a black suit came crashing down her cubicle, folder in hand. The entire space rattled from the impact, her coffee nearly spilling onto the table.
Cafe wasn’t even phased, only sparing the man the most brief cursory glance possible before quickly focusing back on the paper on her hand, her expression as cold and uncaring as ever.
“Eh, Cafe! Are you just going to ignore me!?” The old man in question shouted, his voice loud and ragged.
This time Cafe actually took a minute to look at the man before her, her attention from the file finally broken. The man—Masayoshi Ebina, she recalled—was almost kneeling, both hands gripping his knees. He was actually placed as a supervisor for Cafe if she remembers correctly but for the most part, Cafe was able to do her part without much guidance. He looked like an average Japanese man, his face wrinkled from age and decorated with sweat. He has brown hair, messily cut short with jagged edges at the ends—akin to a bird nest—Cafe muses. Perhaps he had cut it himself? Cafe isn’t so sure. His suit looked more like a latex suit with how tightly it clung to his skin, possibly from all the sweat. His tie was crooked, in a way that suggested that there was a wrestling match that lasted 5 minutes before the human promptly just gave up. Regardless, Cafe was interested in the folder Ebina was holding his hand, stamped with red and a label that seemed overexcessive.
“So… What is it that you need from me, Ebina-san?” Cafe’s tone was light, polite. “It seemed… urgent.” Cafe pointed to the folder Ebina was holding, her ears slightly perked up in interest.
Ebina silently moved forward to Cafe’s cubicle, carefully placing the folder down on the desk as if it would vanish from a breath. The manilla folder looked new, filled to the brim with so many papers that it looked as if it was trying to challenge the thickness of the Bible. On the front, written in bold red letters that hurt if you looked, was the name “Tokyo Slasher”—the name of the case file apparently.
“There’s been this madman running around Tokyo slashing up people left and right. We need you to catch them.” Ebina said, his tone suddenly serious and composed.
“And this is… being forwarded to me because?” Cafe asked, looking up at Ebina expectantly.
Ebina moved closer to the desk, flipping it open and pointing at one of the paper notes clipped to the folder. “Because this guy is a fucking ghost.” Ebina affirmed, his fiery gaze threatening to burn the paper whole. “No blood splatters, no DNA, no traces. Just a dead body, a somehow sterile murder weapon and the promise that this won’t stop.”
Cafe sighed, already reaching out to her cup of coffee. “So, I… guess that’s why the whole department is so…” Cafe paused, searching for the right word. “Enthusiastic?”
“Right on the money once again, Cafe-san!” The man clapped, his expression flickering to a smile before it went deadpan. “So, ready to crack another case together, Cafe-san?”
“Sure…” Cafe sipped her coffee, already flipping over the contents of the folder. “Let’s… catch this ghost… together.”
‘A ghost.’ Cafe remembers, her tail flicking upwards in recognition.
Her face paled in recognition.
It’s… back?
And the air felt colder for no reason.