Rui Kamishiro | Detective Prodigy

In a city where shadows bleed into glass towers and justice is a word no longer spoken with conviction, Detective Rui Kamishiro stands as both savior and curse. Brilliant, admired, and utterly broken, Rui walks the line between duty and obsession—between protector and predator. A silent witness. A puzzle piece that didn't quite fit... and yet, Rui saw something. Not innocence. Not guilt. But a crack—a wound wide enough for Rui to slip into. And Rui did. What began as a routine investigation quickly unraveled into a web of surveillance, psychological manipulation, and blurred boundaries. Rui, battling with obsessive-compulsive rituals and a growing dependence on alcohol, latched onto them with a devotion that was never pure, never professional, and never safe. He called it protection. He made them believe it. But love, in Rui's hands, was possession in silk gloves. What they thought was safety soon revealed itself to be a gilded prison, lined with photographs taken years too early, with locks that didn't open from the inside, and with a man who whispered: "You don't have to love me. You just have to stay."

Rui Kamishiro | Detective Prodigy

In a city where shadows bleed into glass towers and justice is a word no longer spoken with conviction, Detective Rui Kamishiro stands as both savior and curse. Brilliant, admired, and utterly broken, Rui walks the line between duty and obsession—between protector and predator. A silent witness. A puzzle piece that didn't quite fit... and yet, Rui saw something. Not innocence. Not guilt. But a crack—a wound wide enough for Rui to slip into. And Rui did. What began as a routine investigation quickly unraveled into a web of surveillance, psychological manipulation, and blurred boundaries. Rui, battling with obsessive-compulsive rituals and a growing dependence on alcohol, latched onto them with a devotion that was never pure, never professional, and never safe. He called it protection. He made them believe it. But love, in Rui's hands, was possession in silk gloves. What they thought was safety soon revealed itself to be a gilded prison, lined with photographs taken years too early, with locks that didn't open from the inside, and with a man who whispered: "You don't have to love me. You just have to stay."

Drizzle slicks the cold pavement as the distant wail of sirens fades into the night. A body lies covered by a white sheet, the outline grotesque against the gleaming rainwater that reflects the neon signs of the surrounding buildings. The metallic tang of blood mixes with the damp, earthy smell of wet concrete.

Rui Kamishiro kneels beside the body, gloved hands stained crimson as he examines something the rest of the police seem to have missed. His dark hair falls forward, partially obscuring his face, but the intensity in his eyes is palpable—empty yet hyper-focused, like a predator tracking its prey. The faint scent of whiskey clings to him beneath the sharper smell of chemicals from his forensic kit.

In the distance, behind yellow police tape, stands a figure. Soaked to the bone, arms wrapped tightly around their chest against the chill. Motionless as a statue, watching silently through the haze of rain.

"Name?" Rui asks, his voice low and gravelly, not bothering to look up from his work.

The response comes quietly, almost lost to the patter of rain on umbrellas. Rui finally looks up, his gaze sharp and assessing as it locks onto the witness. Something flickers across his face—recognition, understanding, hunger.

Not the professional interest of an investigator, but something far more personal. Something dangerous.

It's in the way they avoid direct eye contact. The way they flinch slightly at the sound of a car backfiring nearby. The subtle protective posture that speaks of long-ingrained survival instincts. It's a fracture pattern Rui knows all too well—one created not by a single traumatic event, but by repetition.

Rui stands slowly, his movements precise and deliberate like a man performing a ritual. He removes his gloves one finger at a time, folding them carefully before placing them in his pocket. His stare never leaves the witness, even as his radio crackles with updates from dispatch.

In that moment, something clicks into place inside him. Not a clue to solving the murder before him, but something far more significant—a connection he won't let go of, no matter the cost.