psychopassera

Hi! I’ve recently been working on a natural Spanish translation of Psycho-Pass Genesis 1. I know my English translations have been pretty much on hold for a while, and I’m sorry about that. But while translating, I came across this scene, which is basically Masaoka’s POV of the childhood scene with Ginoza shown in the New Edit Version.

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So I decided to do what was within my reach: talk more with my family.

When I thought about it, it had been a long time since I had spent time alone with my son, Nobuchika. Partly because of my job, which kept me away from home, and partly because he was already going to school, our schedules rarely lined up. Before doing it, I mentioned it to Sae.

She laughed at me. She told me it was the most normal thing in the world for a father to go out alone with his son. That there are things between fathers and sons that mothers do not understand… and vice versa.

So, once the training program was complete and I had been assigned some free time for mental hue recovery, I went out with my son.

I took the motorcycle out for the first time in a long while.

Sae’s helmet was a little too big for Nobuchika, so I drove with particular care. I worried that I might have lost my reflexes… but my body still remembered how to do it.

And so, cutting through the wind, we crossed the city.

Our destination was the largest abandoned coastal district within the urban area. With several redevelopment projects underway, illegal displaced people who had nowhere else to go had flooded into the zone, and the population density only kept increasing.

The “Sister,” according to what people said, had yielded her position as absolute leader to a collegiate system, delegating power to the next generation. Even so, she still retained considerable influence.

Thanks to her, I was able to prepare a hideout in one of the relatively safer sectors of that abandoned area: a renovated detached house, garage included, converted into a refuge. I would rather never be forced to use it, but it is better to be prepared. Just knowing that an escape route exists already stabilizes the mind quite a bit.

Incidentally, Nobuchika has a personality somewhat different from mine and Sae’s. He is quiet. He does not talk much. Sometimes, he simply says nothing at all.

I wondered who he took after, and thought perhaps it was my own father.

Curiously, I can never clearly remember what his voice sounded like. But I do remember what he said. He was someone who chose his words carefully. Like an expert sniper, every word he spoke hit its mark.

If that is the case… will Nobuchika end up the same way?

I found myself wondering whether sport shooting still had a professional category nowadays. I suppose that already falls into the typical thinking of an overly enthusiastic father.

I pushed the motorcycle into the hideout’s garage. When I turned around for a moment, I saw Nobuchika still sitting on the back seat, small, watching me in silence.

As if he were asking me: Why did you bring me to such a dangerous place?

I scratched my head and answered that the situation had gotten a little complicated, so we were going to take shelter somewhere safe. Yes… at that point, it was still only “a little complicated.”

Nobuchika did not press me. Perhaps that was not even what he had wanted to ask.

The room on the second floor was a little dusty, so the two of us opened the windows, letting in the light and the air. The weather was pleasant. The breeze, carrying a faint scent of the sea, felt fresh, and the stale air cleared out at once.

The room had little furniture: a bed, a desk, and a bookshelf. Everything was practical, without ornament. Somehow, it reminded me of the room I had when I lived in the bachelor dormitory. More than ten years have passed… and yet perhaps I have not changed that much.

I had Nobuchika sit on the bed and asked him to grind the coffee beans we had brought with us. He turned the handle with that dry sound, while the aroma of freshly ground coffee began to fill the room.

The coffee we drank at home… always tasted good. Above all, the best coffee was the one Nobuchika ground and Sae prepared. I had tried many coffee shops, but none surpassed that combination.

Of course, the coffee I made was not bad either… although, according to Sae, I always made it too strong. I suppose men tend to do things a little in their own way, without thinking too much about others. That is not easy to correct.

While Nobuchika ground the beans, I sat in front of a steel desk and opened a locked drawer. Inside there was a rectangular case of a certain thickness. There were also three small paper boxes, sealed to keep out moisture.

Carefully, I took out the case and opened it. Inside was a small handgun, silver-finished and very elegant. It measured about eighteen centimeters in length, with a 2.25-inch barrel. Five-round capacity, using .357 Magnum ammunition.

A Ruger SP101. It was the same model I had used when I was a detective. I obtained this one through the Sister, by way of an intermediary in the black market of the abandoned zones.

Ideally, I would have kept my service weapon, but all police equipment is strictly registered and controlled. Perhaps someone in the weapons depot could have covered it up… but I was a detective from beginning to end. I did not have access to that kind of maneuvering.

I disassembled the revolver, cleaned each piece carefully, and put it back together.

A weapon is like a car… or perhaps even more delicate. Of course, even if you treat it badly, it will keep working up to a point, but a little dirt, the slightest wear… can make all the difference. A slight deformation can throw off a shot… or cause an accident. A poorly handled weapon can turn against its owner.

That is why maintenance is essential.

Owning a weapon of this kind usually affects one’s hue. But in my case, not so much. I suppose it is because I worked in an environment where carrying one was normal. In fact, even now, I would rather carry this pistol than that grotesque device called the Slaughter.

A real weapon forces you to decide for yourself the moment when you must pull the trigger. And when that depends on you, every bullet carries a different weight. It is not something to be used lightly.

While I was focused on the maintenance, I sensed a presence beside me.

It was Nobuchika. He had finished grinding the beans and was holding the mill, not quite knowing what to do. His eyes were fixed on the pistol in my hands.

Curiosity?

But this is not a toy. In a certain sense, it is a dangerous object even to touch. It can affect one’s hue. Although… perhaps he still does not understand it as a weapon. Perhaps he sees it simply as something beautiful. Like a well-made piece of craftsmanship. And, to be honest, weapons do have a certain beauty. There are no unnecessary elements. They are simple, functional, almost elegant.

In the end… I handed him the pistol. Of course, without ammunition.

I put the bullets away in a small box inside the drawer and locked it.

While Nobuchika observed the weapon in silence, I went to the kitchen to prepare the coffee.

I added milk to his cup and left the jar of sugar cubes for him. Nobuchika dropped three brown cubes into it. That was when I realized I had forgotten the spoon.

Without hesitation, he took the cleaning rod that was lying on the desk and, using the end of the handle, began stirring the coffee.

He is definitely my son. He has good ingenuity… even if the method is a little wild.

And then we began to talk.

First, about what had clearly caught his attention: the weapon.

I explained to him that firearms use gunpowder to fire projectiles. That a bullet is made up of the projectile itself and a casing that contains the propellant charge and the primer. That when the trigger is pulled, the firing pin strikes the primer at the base of the casing, initiating a small explosion that ignites the gunpowder. And that the pressure generated pushes the projectile outward, firing it. I also told him that grains of gunpowder are larger than one might imagine. If they were fine powder, they would burn too quickly and cause an explosion.

I told him all of that… But Nobuchika only nodded from time to time, without showing any particularly strong reaction.

Perhaps it was not the right subject. So I closed the matter with an awkward smile and told him that all of this would stay between us.

I tried to change the subject. I thought about telling him about my work… But I could not.

Everything I could tell him was unfair, cruel… things that would inevitably cloud his hue.

It is strange. Society has become so peaceful… and yet my work is covered in blood. As if it were completely blackened.

Because… how could I explain to him that my own colleagues indulged in cruelty against latent criminals who were nothing more than children? How could I tell him that, behind the stage that supports this society, there is only pure madness?

In the end, I chose to ask him what he liked. I remembered that he had recently received recognition for an observation of plants.

Nobuchika began to talk about cacti. He said that, although they are covered in thorns and hurt to touch, they store great quantities of water inside. And that, in a dry desert, they can become a vital source that quenches people’s thirst.

As I listened to him, I thought of something.

It is children who decide the future. Parents… in a sense, we are like the past of that future. All we can do is offer clues, or leave a path traced out. If that is the case… then I have no choice but to keep being a detective.

It is not for me to decide whether that is right or wrong. That will be decided by those who live afterward. People like my son.

My decision was made.

And so passed that day when a father and his son spoke alone.

For me… it was a special day. An opportunity to look at myself again.

I wonder what that day was like for Nobuchika. If he felt something similar to what I felt… perhaps someday, in the distant future, we will be able to laugh together and say: yes, after all, we really are father and son.

I hope that is the case.

Traducción al español (estan las seis partes completas), acá

Part 1/6 available here

Part 2/6 available here

2

Even on his days off, Ginoza woke up at the same time as always. He slept exactly six hours. Over time, his body had gotten used to that rhythm, partly because every morning, someone who shared the bed with him would wake him up right on time. Today was no exception: Dime was already asking for his morning walk. As a good Siberian husky —a large and active breed— he needed to go out twice a day, in the morning and at dusk, which required a considerable level of exercise. As soon as he got up, Ginoza ran a tone diagnostic. Lately, it had remained stable, with no signs of cloudiness. He had a psychological counseling session scheduled for the afternoon, but maybe he could cancel it. He sat up and headed to the bathroom. His hair was messy in the back, so he smoothed it down quickly. Maybe it was time to get it cut, he thought, as he changed from his pajamas into workout clothes and wrapped his scarf around his neck. He walked down the hallway and glanced at the living room. In the dim light, Ron was still sound asleep. It would be a while before he woke up. At the entrance, Dime was already waiting eagerly, pacing with impatience. Ginoza slung the bag containing the poop bags and scooper over his shoulder, then fastened the magnetic leash to the dog’s collar. Dime was perfectly used to living with humans, so he never chased after passersby or caused any trouble. Still, walking him off-leash was a concern—animals weren’t everyone’s cup of tea. And in times like these, when the number of living specimens had drastically decreased, that was even more apparent. Causing someone else’s tone to worsen, even if you’re doing it to maintain your own mental state, ultimately ends up being counterproductive. Outside, the air was filled with the coldest kind of silence, just before dawn. Although the calendar showed that the official start of spring had passed, winter remained relentless. Ginoza had a good height, but he was thin. He lacked both fat and muscle mass. He watched Dime sniffing the base of a post by the roadside and, for a moment, envied the thickness of his coat that kept him warm.

However, by the time they reached the coastal park—after leaving the inspectors’ residence and walking along the sidewalk—Ginoza’s body had already warmed up. The grass beneath their feet looked a light green. When he noticed it, the sun was already about to rise.

Winter walks were harsh because of the cold, but he liked that feeling of witnessing the moment the world renewed itself once more. The sun rose between the sections of sky divided by the elevated highways over the sea. Each segment stood as a black silhouette against the glow, while the outer surfaces reflected the light intensely. Electric vehicles passed through, emitting a high-pitched hum that overlapped again and again. In the distance, the low horn of a ship sounded.

And it was as if that sound triggered something. Dime howled.

It was a long howl, like someone stretching with satisfaction.

After his morning song, Dime walked a bit farther and defecated. Ginoza picked up the waste with the scoop and placed it in the bag. They continued walking until they encountered a park environmental management drone.

The drone collected the waste bag. One of the reasons Ginoza often chose this coastal park for their walks was precisely that: there were a reasonable number of dog owners walking their pets, which ensured the maintenance drones circulated regularly.

Dime, increasingly lively, continued walking with overflowing energy.

He tugged firmly at the leash, as if trying to drag his owner along. His physical condition was remarkable, especially the power of his hind legs, which stood out clearly within his overall musculature. The definition of his muscles was perfect. In dogs, old age often shows first in the hind legs: they lose strength, weaken, walking becomes difficult. But for now, Dime showed no worrying signs. Ginoza felt somewhat relieved.

When it came to close family, only two came to mind: Dime and his grandmother. And he wished both would live many more years.

His grandmother, though she wasn’t suffering from any illness, was already quite old. Not wanting to become a burden to her grandson, she had voluntarily moved to a senior residence and left the care of the family home to a management company. At some point, Ginoza had suggested selling the house, but she replied, “I’m keeping it for when you have a family of your own.”

And he… still wasn’t in a position to fulfill that expectation. It weighed on him.

The usual café, which allowed pets, was a short distance from the park, in the shopping area in front of the station. By midday, the place would surely be full again, but at that hour of the morning—on a quiet holiday—it was nearly empty. Silence reigned.

Ginoza sat at the terrace table he had already reserved and tied Dime’s leash to the base of the table.

The morning set included pancakes cooked to perfection, with just a subtle hint of salt. The scrambled eggs were at that soft point, just before they began to break apart, gently wrapping around the toasted flavor of the bacon. He added a teaspoon of milk and another of sugar to his coffee, which made it smooth and balanced.

Dime, for his part, seemed to be enjoying breakfast out of the house after such a long time. And that was the most important thing.

After eating, now relaxed, Ginoza noticed the café slowly beginning to fill with families. Children, curious to see a real, living dog, eagerly approached. Dime, with the demeanor of a kindly grandfather, stood up slowly. Ginoza unfastened the leash from the table and let him go to the children’s area for dogs.

Dime was certified as a therapy dog, so the parents could let their children play with him without worry.

From his seat on the terrace, Ginoza watched them from a distance, in silence.

He fully approved of that scene. With all his heart.

Working at the Public Safety Bureau, dealing daily with latent criminals, one could sometimes forget this: that for most people, the society governed by Sibyl offered a good life. In fact, in many ways, it was almost a utopia. The system assigned everyone a job suited to their aptitudes, avoiding unnecessary stress, and allowed each person to be useful as a social resource.

Moreover, the compatibility diagnostics conducted by Sibyl helped people find their ideal partner.

The children playing with Dime were still very young. Their parents didn’t seem much older than Ginoza—perhaps just a little.

At some point, those couples—who had met through age compatibility or shared circumstances—ended up getting together, starting families, raising children.

Ginoza, however, had never met anyone like that.

He had spent over twenty years in that state, and he might very well remain that way for the rest of his life.

But he didn’t mind. He was used to solitude. In fact, imagining himself in an intimate relationship, sharing life with someone in particular, felt uncomfortable. Foreign.

I'm fine on my own, he thought.

The work of an inspector, by its very nature, carried a high risk of tone deterioration. And although he did his best to keep his Psycho-Pass under control, with the greatest possible care, he knew that in life there was always the “just in case.”

For example… if he were ever to become a latent criminal.

He didn’t even want to imagine that someone he loved—a close friend, or even a child he might one day have with someone he deeply loved—could end up going through what he had lived. Being dragged into stigma, isolated the way he was. That... that would be unbearable. He could never forgive himself.

So, it was better not to have it in the first place.

If he could prove to society that his existence had value, that was more than enough.

To be someone who strengthened the system that allowed children like those now playing with Dime, and the families who accompanied them, to live a full and carefree life. If he could contribute to preserving that way of life—that everyday happiness—then his purpose would be fulfilled.

He would be like Atlas, the titan who held up the sky with the full weight of his body.

And if there were still room left to wish for something, it would be that even those who, like him in the past, had been swept away by the absurdity of the world, might also receive Sibyl’s grace. That the system could become even more just…

No. He must not think that way.

That line of thought was dangerous. As if suggesting that the perfect system might have flaws.

But the fact that he himself was there, in that moment—wasn’t that proof enough that the Sibyl System granted its grace equally? As much as he had once been cast aside, he had been given the chance to rise again if he put in everything he had. That should be enough.

Therefore, protecting this society—as it is—was his only duty. Nothing more, nothing less.

He asked the waiter for a glass of water. Then he took his dose of Psycho-Pass stabilizers. Afterward, he checked the reservation for his therapy session, which he had considered canceling… and not only confirmed it, but added an additional package.

Emotional care recommendations tend to suggest, almost without limit, all kinds of stress management methods. And without realizing it, the final cost could become considerable. But if they were being recommended to him, it meant he needed them. There was no reason to reject them.

And so he ended up spending the entire afternoon of the holiday in a lengthy psychological counseling session.

By the time he returned home, night was falling.

He decided to cancel Dime’s evening walk. After playing so much with the children, the dog seemed completely exhausted. He ate his dinner without much enthusiasm and then headed straight to the shower.

After showering, Ginoza did a brief workout routine. Nothing too elaborate: without specialized equipment, he stuck to several sets of push-ups, sit-ups, and back extensions in a circuit. His body type made it difficult to gain either fat or muscle, so if he wanted to develop a more defined physique, he would need a much stricter regimen. But he didn’t have the time—nor the interest—for that. And before he realized it, even his day off had already turned into a fully dark night.

And at that hour, it was time for another ritual.

In silence, Ginoza approached Ron, who was still lying in the living room.

At midnight, the coastal park was covered in trees that acted as natural light fixtures. The leaves of the evergreen trees seemed caught in a game of holographic lights that intertwined over their veins, as if coated in crystalized sugar. They glowed in red, blue, yellow, green… and even pure white.

He had decided that walks with Ron would be nighttime only.

Unlike Dime, who walked with ease, Ron—with his missing leg—couldn’t avoid an uneven gait, although his long fur partly concealed the condition. In this society, anything strange or outside the norm was not well received.

Ron stopped frequently during the walk. It was understandable. Though younger than Dime, he was already a senior dog. If Ginoza didn’t insist on getting him outside, he could spend the whole day lying in bed, unmoving. And if that happened, physical decline would inevitably accelerate.

He had to be extremely careful with Ron’s health while also making sure he got as much exercise as possible.

Ron asked for a break, so Ginoza sat on one of the park benches and gently lifted him onto his lap. The dog didn’t protest. He stayed there, calm.

The day off was coming to an end. Starting tomorrow, he would have to resume the case investigation.

The animal reintroduction case was, in a way, moving toward its resolution… and at the same time, stalled.

The Sanitation Bureau had managed to capture most of the animals released through the reintroduction effort, and of those reported stolen, many were already undergoing retraining programs to be returned to their owners. As a result, stress levels in the areas where the incidents occurred were beginning to decrease.

On the other hand, the Public Safety Bureau had still not managed to locate the animal therapist. His face was known, and his tone was confirmed to be clouded. Had he entered any urban area, the street scanners would have detected him immediately. But no report had been issued. Even so, it couldn't be considered a completely negative situation.

If that man had truly decided to sever all ties with society and disappear entirely, then the objective of isolating a latent criminal from social life would, in practical terms, be fulfilled.

From a broader perspective, the resolution of the case could be said to be moving in an acceptable direction.

And yet, Ginoza felt a raw discomfort when he learned the fate of some of the animals that had been captured. Some had been euthanized.

It was determined that, after spending time living in a wild state, they could pose a risk of tone contamination. Some owners refused to take them back, meaning they were rejected by the very people who had originally acquired them to help stabilize their Psycho-Pass. From that point of view, the decision was understandable… but in the end, animals are not therapeutic devices. They are living beings. And a living being should not be discarded just because it no longer serves its intended purpose.

However, once something is labeled as a risk to tone, this society can become terrifyingly ruthless.

That was why Ginoza couldn’t understand what had gone through the mind of the animal therapist who carried out the reintroduction. Someone like him should have had the capacity to foresee the consequences of his actions. Miyake Yōnobu, the name identified by Kōgami and the others, had an impeccable professional background.

He was a psychotherapist accredited by the Ministry of Welfare, a profession reserved only for those with exceptional training and experience. For years, he worked at a medical institution directly supervised by the Ministry. Later, after retiring, he moved to the outskirts of the city and opened a small clinic, where he was supposed to live a quiet, discreet life.

But last year, he refused to undergo his scheduled tone evaluation. He ignored repeated warnings… and eventually committed the crime.

Had he lost control as a result of his tone deterioration?

That explanation couldn’t be completely ruled out.

In fact, toward the end of his career as a therapist, his reports had already begun to note a certain degree of clouding. It wasn’t concerning in itself—considering how demanding his work was—and it was considered within acceptable margins. In fact, after his retirement, there had been a temporary improvement.

But starting a certain year, his tone began to deteriorate rapidly. And by the time he was evaluated two years ago, his condition was just enough to avoid being isolated. In that evaluation, he had desperately declared, “I just can’t ignore the suffering of the wounded.”

Was he someone who formed such intense emotional bonds with the animals he treated?

If that were the case, it wouldn’t match the color stability he maintained while working as a therapist for humans—who, in theory, should have provoked even greater empathy. Besides, there were no records of patients who had suffered injuries severe enough to justify such distress. Perhaps he destroyed those files. But if that were true, then another question arises: why would he have felt the need to erase them?

Ginoza recalled something Sasayama had grumbled about: “Looks like we at the Public Safety Bureau drew the bitter prize in the lottery.” The more they investigated the animal therapist, the more unsettling things they uncovered. It was like a bottomless swamp they kept sinking into.

And for that very reason, even though he knew it was useless, Ginoza couldn’t help thinking: if only Ron could tell us about his owner, maybe many of these mysteries would become clear.

But of course, Ron would not speak. He remained silent.

The dog is considered the oldest domesticated animal by humans. They have shared over ten thousand years of history. They are obedient animals, yes… but not so convenient as to fulfill every human expectation.

Although Ron was under the Department’s custody as material evidence, he showed no signs of being of any use to the investigation. At this point, Ginoza was simply taking care of him. The costs of his care came out of his own pocket.

It could be called a pointless act.

And yet… he had no intention of letting him go.

Was it compassion for a dog abandoned by his owner?

He didn’t know for sure. Only that… whatever the outcome of the case, he felt his desire to care for Ron growing stronger with each passing day. Raising two elderly dogs, including Dime, would not be an easy task. But a bond had already formed. He couldn’t simply abandon him.

“...Time to head back, don’t you think?”

Although spring should have been near, the night kept getting colder, and the stone pavement gave off a dry chill. Perhaps for Ron, who had lived in snow-covered mountain regions, this weather still felt warm—but even so, letting his body get too cold wasn’t a good idea. Especially for a basset hound, a short-legged breed whose torso tends to remain in contact with the ground.

At that moment, his communication device emitted an alert. Ginoza checked the sender's name: it was Kōgami. He answered immediately. “Sorry for calling so late. Were you already asleep?” came Kōgami’s voice, deep and calm on the other end. “Asleep at this hour?” Ginoza let out a small laugh. “I was out walking Ron.” “I see,” Kōgami replied, and Ginoza could almost picture the faint smile on his face. “That dog from the case, right?” “So? Did you find something?” Kōgami had been at the Public Safety Bureau headquarters earlier that day with Sasayama, which made it seem likely that there had been some progress in the investigation. “No, I just called to give my brain a break... Hey, Gino… will you be at the Nitto Academy next Sunday…?” “…A class reunion?” The question caught him off guard, as if the topic had changed suddenly and without warning. Nitto Academy was the educational institution he had attended during the upper stages of compulsory education. It was there that, due to a minor incident, he first met Kōgami. “Next year marks five years since our graduation. They’re organizing a general reunion for all departments, and this year they’re inviting the top students from each as representatives to help with preparations. Didn’t you get the invitation email?” “…That’s right. I’d forgotten,” Ginoza replied, then immediately added, “I have no intention of attending. I don’t like those kinds of events.” Although Kōgami—a true prodigy—had earned the highest exam score in the country at the end of the education system, Ginoza had also achieved one of the best scores, especially within the law faculty. If what Kōgami said was true, then he was probably listed as the representative for his faculty.

And yet, I never got an invitation, he thought, with a bitter smile.

After all, he had been the one to reject all connection with the people around him. Maybe, then, he should be glad: the world was finally behaving the way he had wanted it to. Back in his student days, there had been no shortage of people who—out of an irrational fear that he had inherited the genes of a latent criminal—avoided him on one hand, but harassed him on the other with criticism, mockery, or provocations. If they hated him so much, why didn’t they just stay away?

There were also those who came close pretending to be allies, just because they too had a latent criminal in their family and “knew how hard it was.” But they were all the same. No one saw Nobuchika Ginoza as an individual. To everyone, he was just the poor boy with a latent criminal for a father. A label. A story others told on his behalf.

Except for Shinya Kōgami.

Kōgami had been the only one who was different from the very beginning.

His academic record was so extraordinary that not even Ginoza, with all his effort, could match him. A prodigy in every sense: brilliant, flawless. Great physique, excellent reflexes, outstanding intelligence. And even with all that, he knew how to communicate just enough to get along with someone as difficult as Ginoza. But that wasn’t the most important thing.

What truly set him apart was that he saw Ginoza as Nobuchika Ginoza. As a person. It would never have occurred to him to reduce him to “the son of a latent criminal.” He didn’t even think in those terms.

It had been the same that time, too. When Ginoza faced a group of students who provoked him with cheap excuses. They had the numbers. It was an unwinnable fight. But Kōgami appeared and, saying nothing more than “this doesn’t sit right with me,” joined in. He didn’t do it to protect the weak or out of pity. Just because he thought it shouldn’t happen.

And from that moment on—who knows how it happened—they understood each other.

They began spending time together. Even though they were in different departments and lived in opposite directions, they found time to meet. They ate together, went out, talked about all sorts of things.

Kōgami was open. He spoke frankly about himself. Once, he said that his mother, a single mother, used to give him books when he was a child, and that’s why he loved reading. He said something sentimental, something about how the touch of a paper book made that bond feel real.

That was likely just his nature. Kōgami had the ability to accept others as they were, to understand them instinctively. And he also had that ease of crossing boundaries without effort, of getting close with a disarming comfort.

“…So that’s it. That’s why you…”

Ever since they reunited, after the merger of Division One and Division Three, Ginoza had thought that Kōgami had changed. That he was no longer the same. But it wasn’t true. He hadn’t changed at all.

He had surely treated the enforcers of Division Three, and even Sasayama himself, with the same frankness he had once shown to Ginoza. With that same direct gaze. With that same sense of justice that never sought reward.

And yet, he—Ginoza—had insisted on building an idealized version of “Kōgami Shinya, the model inspector.” A fabricated image that only frustrated him more and more every time it didn’t match reality. Without realizing it, he had ended up doing the same thing as those he had always despised: labeling. Categorizing.

I’ve been a fool. A complete idiot.

“What’s wrong, Gino?” Kōgami was probably tilting his head slightly as he said it. “First you go quiet, and now all of a sudden you look like you’ve figured everything out.”

“No, it’s nothing. And you? Are you going? To the reunion, I mean. Go and enjoy it for both of us.”

“About that… If you’re not going, then I don’t have to go either.”

“Don’t copy me. In our year, you’re practically the representative. Come on, Kōgami, go for the both of us.”

“Then I’ll go,” Kōgami said simply.

“That’s exactly why…” Ginoza started to protest, but was interrupted.

“Don’t you think we had a conversation like this years ago?”

On the other end of the line, Ginoza could almost picture Kōgami letting out a soft, relaxed sigh. He didn’t know why, but that image came clearly to mind.

“Huh?”

“When we were choosing our future paths, you said you were definitely going to join the Public Safety Bureau. And I don’t know… your enthusiasm rubbed off on me. I decided to follow that path too. I just remembered that.”

“…Ah, that.”

Ginoza remembered that moment too. It was probably one of the few times in his life he had ever opened up that much to someone. Maybe it had only ever happened with Kōgami. Sometimes, he was oddly indecisive… and then he’d say something completely unexpected that always caught Ginoza off guard.

“That’s why, Gino… I think I understand better than anyone how serious you are about your job as an inspector.”

That’s right. Even now.

“…Why are you bringing this up all of a sudden?”

“I also understand the problems presented by Enforcer Masaoka.”

“…Kōgami.”

“I understand,” said Ginoza. He knew the other didn’t speak lightly or on impulse. And even so…

“But precisely because of that, you should learn how to properly handle a good bloodhound.”

Kōgami’s words were too direct. Too honest.

“I’m telling you this because I consider you a friend. Right now, even though we’re few, we have an almost perfect team. If you, as our commander, can guide us well, there won’t be a case we can’t solve. We can go undefeated. I’m sure we have what it takes.”

Ginoza couldn’t help but smile, even if just to himself. This guy hasn’t changed at all.

He wondered: If I had grown up like Kōgami, would I have been like him?

But no. That was impossible. Kōgami was Kōgami, and Ginoza was Ginoza. Neither could replace the other. As hard as it was to live with that, that very impossibility of being interchangeable was precisely what gave each of them their unique value.

“…Was that all you wanted to say?” “Yes. That’s all.” “Then let me respond.”

For some reason, at that moment, Ginoza felt that Kōgami, on the other end of the device, had straightened up, adopting a formal posture.

“It’s obvious. We’re Inspectors. And we have to fulfill our duty.”

There was a brief pause. Only the sound of their breathing, shared in silence, floated between them.

“…I’m glad you said that,” Kōgami finally replied. “If I’d known, I would’ve gotten straight to the point from the start.” “Idiot. You’re not supposed to say those things out loud. In a negotiation, that puts you at a disadvantage.”

And yet… that was exactly why he could trust him. Kōgami. He could trust him.

“To each their own. I’ll leave that kind of thing to you, Gino. As for me, it seems like I’m better off out in the field chasing down the culprits.”

And with that, the call ended.

The night had advanced considerably. By the time they returned, it would probably already be past midnight.

Ron, still resting on Ginoza’s lap, let out a low bark, as if to say, Done talking at last? His voice was deep and resonant. “Sorry, I made you wait too long,” Ginoza said to him.

He tried to lift him to head back home, but Ron gently clung to his leg, refusing to be picked up. Ginoza managed to ease him to the ground carefully, and although the dog immediately laid down again with a tired expression, Ginoza helped him up. Then he walked beside him, almost dragging him with patience but without force, making sure not to cause any harm.

Traducción al español (estan las seis partes completas), acá

Part 1/6 available here

1

As he did every day, Ginoza finished arranging his desk precisely on time, put on his black overcoat, and picked up his briefcase before leaving the Office of Division One, part of the Criminal Investigation Department.

The rest of the team remained at their desks, focused on their tasks. The only person who looked up to acknowledge his departure was Shinya Kōgami, his colleague and fellow Inspector in Division One. He had short, rigid hair, a strong and athletic build, and a presence more reminiscent of a wild wolf than a human being. And yet, something in his face retained the noble bearing of a hunting dog raised in a distinguished household.

Kōgami straightened slightly, as if he were about to say something upon seeing Ginoza leave without a word. But Ginoza had already exited the office before he could open his mouth.

He knew exactly what he was going to say. “At least say goodbye to the Enforcers before you leave.” That kind of remark. Minor, harmless, scoldings, but persistent. Having known him since their formative years in higher education, Ginoza didn’t need to hear the words to understand perfectly what his former classmate was thinking.

And perhaps because of that… he hesitated even more.

He thought of him. Of someone who, with far superior marks than his own, had graduated at the top of the class during the final evaluation of the compulsory education system and had gone on to become an Inspector for the Ministry of Welfare—the very core of society under the Sibyl System. And yet, that same man now trusted an Enforcer—a latent criminal released from an isolation facility merely because he was deemed “useful”—and worse still, treated him as an equal. That attitude, to Ginoza, was a sign of reckless naivety. It was not the behavior of a sensible citizen.

As the elevator descended to the ground floor, he wondered when he had first started noticing these strange gestures in Kōgami. The numbers on the elevator panel faded one by one, each replaced by a brief flash of light. As he watched the 3 slowly become a 1, Ginoza understood.

It had started last year, when they reunited after the restructuring of the divisions within the Criminal Investigation Department.

Both had joined the Public Safety Bureau in the same year, part of the same intake, though they had initially been assigned to different sections. But the human toll within the police force was so high that in less than two years, both divisions were decimated. Eventually, Division One absorbed Division Three. Ginoza and Sasayama remained in their original posts, while Kōgami and another Enforcer were transferred from Division Three.

That meant Kōgami had adopted that way of thinking during his time in the old division. Some kind of warped ideology had clung to him there.

Crossing the main lobby and stepping into the wide courtyard in front of the building, he was greeted by an icy wind. He pulled his coat tighter and looked up at the tower rising behind him like an enormous cylindrical column reaching toward the sky. Inside that structure were the Enforcers’ quarters.

Enforcers were strictly forbidden from leaving the building unless escorted by Inspectors for investigative purposes. And yet, sometimes—during an assignment—some of them attempted to escape.

And in such cases, it was the Inspector himself who had to intervene.

Some Enforcers had even been eliminated. For that reason alone, the Inspector must establish a clear and unquestionable hierarchical relationship. Excessive familiarity not only interferes with duty—it also poses a risk to one's hue by deepening emotional ties with latent criminals. That Kōgami, as intelligent as he was, failed to understand this… was something Ginoza simply couldn’t accept. To him, Enforcers were like wild dogs still untamed.

In contrast, Ron—the Basset Hound they had captured the previous week and who had been under Ginoza’s custody as evidence ever since—was almost hard to believe had ever wandered the mountains alone as part of an animal reintroduction. He was clearly well trained. He had likely spent a great deal of time with his former owner—the animal therapist still missing—and that explained his calm demeanor. He had shown no aggression, made no attempt to attack; on the contrary, he had settled into Ginoza’s apartment as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Especially for a Basset Hound—a breed known for its loud, prolonged barking—it was a relief that he didn’t start barking uncontrollably in a tower-style apartment like the ones assigned to Inspectors.

However, not everything was going well.

As Ginoza made his way toward the public transportation station, he had the growing sense that the problem remained unresolved.

Upon returning home, he was greeted by a bark. It wasn’t loud, but it had a lively, almost cheerful tone. It sounded to him like “Welcome back.” Ginoza took off his shoes, and as he stepped onto the hallway’s cork flooring, the embedded sensors activated, and the bedroom door slid open slowly. Then, a sharp-eyed dog with heterochromatic eyes and a gleaming coat of deep brown fur began walking down the hall.

“I’m home, Dime.”

It was his lifelong companion, Dime, the Siberian Husky who had been with him since childhood. This breed had historically been used as sled dogs by the hunting and nomadic peoples of Siberia and Alaska. Its name derived from a distorted pronunciation of the term merchants once used—often derogatorily—for the Chukchi people, their original breeders, whom they referred to as “Eskimos.”

Around Dime’s neck hung a coin, fastened to his collar like an ornament. It was part of Ginoza’s personal collection and also the inspiration behind his name.

Ginoza set down his briefcase, knelt, and accepted his dog’s exuberant greeting. Though the average life expectancy of a Siberian Husky hovered around fifteen years, Dime had outlived it—and still retained his playful and stubborn spirit, throwing himself against Ginoza with the same energy as always. After receiving the enthusiastic hug for quite a while, Ginoza finally managed to peel him off, brushing away the strands of soft fur that clung to his coat. A cleaning drone rolled past and immediately vacuumed them off the floor.

It seemed Dime was shedding even more than usual lately. He had never fallen ill, but… the signs of aging were unmistakable.

“How’s he doing?” Ginoza asked while hanging his coat in the wardrobe.

Dime stared at the living room for a few seconds, then looked up at Ginoza and let out a long bark, as if to say, “You forgot again.” It was almost like a sigh in the shape of a reproach. Yes… just as he’d suspected.

Ginoza walked with Dime toward the living room. There too, a sliding door like the one in the bedroom opened softly as it detected his presence. In a corner just outside the direct flow of the air conditioning, there was the dog’s bed: a foam mattress covered in blankets. On it, lying down, was Ron—the Basset Hound. His eyes were closed, but as Ginoza entered, he cracked one open, gave a slight twitch of one long ear… and then collapsed again without making a sound. He behaved like a fussy old landlord who didn’t want to be disturbed.

“Were you sleeping, Ron?”

Ginoza sat on the sofa and spoke to the guest who had been staying with him for nearly a week. Ron didn’t respond. He remained completely still. Ginoza waited a few moments for a sign, then got to his feet and went over to the cactus by the window to check on it. When he touched the soil in the pot, he found it dry—likely because he’d left the heater on all day. He headed to the kitchen-dining area to fetch the spray bottle and water it.

Then he noticed the food dishes had been cleared.

Dime’s bowl was completely spotless, as if he had licked up every last grain. But Ron’s, just as he’d feared, remained untouched. The food sat there, exactly as it had been left.

Ron, like a prisoner staging a silent protest, was refusing to eat. Ginoza had tried different brands and combinations, but nothing had worked.

At first, he thought the refusal might be due to lingering effects of the anesthetic used during the capture, but medical tests revealed no abnormalities. He was barely drinking water, and even with that alone, the weight loss was already noticeable.

Ginoza returned to the living room and approached Ron, who still hadn’t moved. Touching him, he could feel the long, soft fur, carefully groomed after removing the fleas, ticks, and other parasites he had brought back from the mountains. But his body was visibly thin. Pressing gently, he discovered a surprisingly solid bone structure for such a small frame. That contrast—fragility disguised as resilience—wiped the expression from his face.

Ron didn’t flinch at contact, nor did he tense up, but he didn’t seem to enjoy it either. It wasn’t distrust, because if invited for a walk, he would obey with lazy reluctance but without resistance. Only with food did he remain utterly unyielding.

Ginoza sat on the sofa, flipping through documents projected holographically from his Inspector’s device, but his eyes barely skimmed the surface of the words. He was reading without understanding. He felt frustrated. Useless. He had earned certification as a canine therapist, was qualified to conduct assisted therapy sessions with dogs… and yet, when it came to actually caring for a dog, he felt like a complete amateur. It was absurd.

Something was slipping past him.

Animals don’t communicate their thoughts with words, but that doesn’t mean there’s no communication. Just as humans use gestures and facial expressions beyond verbal language, the movements and behaviors of animals also carry messages.

There were times when Ginoza felt quietly proud of his ability to quickly pick up on a dog’s nonverbal cues. But… was that sensitivity something that only worked with Dime, the dog who had been by his side his entire life? What if it had always been Dime—steadfast and perceptive—who had read his thoughts and acted accordingly?

Dime had been a gift from his grandmother. A therapy dog.

In the darkest period of his life, Dime had been almost the only bright memory. At that time, still a child, the world had seemed brutal, illogical, utterly merciless. His father, a police detective, had seen his hue severely clouded during a case investigation and had ended up classified as a latent criminal, confined in an isolation facility. That all happened just after the Criminal Coefficient system had been implemented. It was a time when society, newly aligned with the absolute values of the Sibyl System, was intent on imposing them aggressively on everyone. Those labeled as latent criminals—and anyone resembling them—were ruthlessly cast out.

Even though there wasn’t a single study proving that criminal latency was hereditary, the belief was embraced with near-fanatical conviction. Even today, some discrimination against the families of latent criminals still lingers, but back then, the persecution was extreme.

His father's fall into the latent category was a sentence that condemned both Ginoza and his mother to social hell. They lost their place in the world. Even when they moved to a new area, someone would always discover their background, and before long, they’d be despised again—scorned, insulted, shunned. Ginoza’s mother, unable to withstand the pressure, began to decline too, her hue growing darker and darker. And still, she clung to hope, desperately searching for some way, some method, to restore her husband’s hue. But a discarded object doesn’t rise back into the air by defying gravity. Everything kept falling… until it broke entirely.

Ginoza hated his father. He despised him deeply. That man had shown up as an Enforcer when his mother was already in critical condition… and hadn’t stayed with her at her deathbed. [1] He had left—just like that—because duty called him in the middle of an investigation. He had been consumed entirely by his role as a detective. There was no way to forgive him for it. And, of course, Ginoza’s hue could never remain pure after that.

Then as now, Ginoza constantly asked himself whether he was living as a proper person in the eyes of society. And he could say without hesitation that the child he once was… had been completely mistaken.

His grandmother, desperate to improve his hue, tried various psychological therapies for him. Dime was part of that effort. He arrived as a therapy dog when he was still a puppy, meant to help him heal. In modern Japanese society, where living animals were extraordinarily valuable commodities, a Siberian Husky like Dime was no small investment. That breed, in particular, had been celebrated since the 20th century for its critical role in delivering serum during a diphtheria outbreak in Nome, Alaska. They had crossed over 1,000 kilometers of frozen trails to save hundreds of lives. Since then, they had been seen as lucky dogs in times of epidemic, and their value had soared.

But his grandmother spared no expense for her grandson. She tried everything.

And it was through Dime—through that silent bond—that Ginoza discovered that even in a world full of enemies eager to hurt him… someone could still stand by his side. That realization had been his salvation. It pulled him up from collapse and set him on the path to becoming someone who could live "correctly."

That’s why he studied with such desperation. So that he would never give even the slightest opening to those who approached with malicious intent.

He couldn’t give them even the smallest chance. He had to prove that he was worth enough to exist in this society.

That’s why he chose the Public Safety Bureau.

Obtaining a suitability evaluation for that particular agency during the mandatory vocational assessment received at the end of basic education was extremely rare. Working in criminal investigation meant, from the outset, living in constant proximity to the risk of hue deterioration. But if one managed to hold that job until the end, it was possible to attain a high-ranking position within the Ministry of Welfare—the true core of Sibyl society. In other words, to become one of the people who moved the world.

That would allow Nobuchika Ginoza to prove to the system—and to the entire world—that his existence had meaning.

No. He couldn’t afford to fail. And especially not in a case like this, where there hadn’t even been any fatalities. No, he thought immediately. He couldn’t underestimate it.

This wasn’t a trivial case.

Pets are sometimes referred to as “companion animals.” But their significance goes beyond affection—they are true partners in life. When an animal therapist decides to release them into the wild at random, it’s as if someone had stripped a family of all means of communication and abandoned them in an unfamiliar country. No one could remain calm in the face of that.

And many of those affected were elderly people. Couples who had started raising an animal after their children had left home. Or seniors who had lost their spouses and lived alone. For them, those animals were vital components—indispensable for maintaining the stability of their Psycho-Pass.

“I’m a pathetic man,” Ginoza thought, feeling the pressure of frustration build inside him.

This wasn’t good. He was experiencing stress.

He moved to the kitchen-dining area, retrieved the vial of Psycho-Pass care stabilizers, and, following the prescribed dosage, swallowed several pills with a glass of water. Ever since he became an Inspector, those medications—along with his regular therapy sessions—had become indispensable for performing his duties.

At that moment, Dime followed him into the kitchen. He probably thought Ginoza was about to serve food.

And now that he thought of it… he hadn’t eaten dinner yet either.

Ginoza was never one to have much appetite, and skipping meals wasn’t unusual for him. But for a large dog like Dime, meals were essential. Forgetting something so basic… he was clearly out of sorts.

He prepared Dime’s food, and at the same time, ordered a high-performance nutritional bagel for himself from the food printer. It was a New York–style bagel, typical of the Ashkenazi [2] baking tradition: compact, chewy, with excellent bite texture. Each section had a slightly different flavor, preventing palate fatigue. He ate slowly, finishing it almost without realizing.

Then he watched Dime eat. The dog chewed slowly, as if savoring every bite, and then took small sips from the water bowl beside his dish. Despite his age, his appetite remained intact, although he certainly ate less than before and took more time to do it.

“If only Ron could eat like that…” Ginoza murmured, almost without thinking.

Dime immediately stopped eating and looked up, fixing his mismatched eyes on him for a long moment.

It was his tenth stare. It wasn’t an iris defect. In Siberian Huskies, heterochromatic eyes are perfectly normal. And yet, Ginoza had always felt a particular fascination with that enigmatic gaze. Dime, as if nothing had happened, calmly returned to his food and resumed chewing with the same tranquility as before. It was as if he were quietly granting his owner forgiveness for that brief moment of emotional infidelity.

I’m sorry, Dime. I’ve neglected you.

The next morning, the usual case meeting was held.

It wasn’t that there had been any significant progress. The overall division of labor remained the same: Ginoza and Sasayama would continue investigating the stolen animals in coordination with the Health Office. Meanwhile, Kōgami and Enforcer Masaoka were in charge of tracking down the animal therapist, Yōnobu Miyake.

“…I know I don’t have anything concrete to offer, but something about all this smells off.”

It was Masaoka who spoke, after finishing his report. His face, lined with wrinkles, carried the weight of years of experience that certified him as a veteran Enforcer. He wore a relaxed, classic suit that suited his unhurried pace. Every movement he made left behind a faint trace of alcohol and turpentine—as if his body still held the memory of a painter’s studio.

“This Miyake Yōnobu… it’s like he was using the animals he raised to turn a profit, taking in pets left by other owners for that purpose. If someone told me he was reselling them, I’d get it,” Masaoka continued, frowning. “But I just can’t figure out why—suddenly, as if something flipped inside him—he let all of them go. If we could understand that, I think we’d have a solid lead…”

“Is that your detective’s instinct talking, Tottsan?” Kōgami interjected, with a faint smile. Ever since their time in Division Three, his trust in Masaoka had been absolute.

“The motive doesn’t matter,” Ginoza cut in coldly. “What we need are results. You can play detective after the meeting.”

The interruption sparked a jolt of irritation.

Kōgami, from the very first day they’d met, had always had that tendency to drift outside reality. Maybe it was his insatiable love for reading, or his devotion to fiction, but he always seemed to carry a trace of idealism with him. He was a romantic. A dreamer. And Masaoka—with his mannerisms, his language, his very presence—seemed like he had stepped out of a vintage detective novel. But at the end of the day, he was a latent criminal. A social outcast. Not someone you could place blind trust in.

“Hey, Gino…”

Kōgami cast him a glance from the side, but Ginoza ignored it.

“Inspector Kōgami, continue the search for the animal therapist. If you require information that falls under another ministry’s jurisdiction, submit the request—I’ll handle the clearance. That’s all. Meeting adjourned.”

As Masaoka gave Kōgami a pat on the shoulder, as if calming him before he could say anything else, Ginoza once again felt that persistent discomfort stir within him.

The rest of the morning was consumed almost entirely by email exchanges with the Health Office. Things that could have been settled in two or three sentences over a holovisor call turned into endless email chains, filled with the kind of convoluted, overly formal writing so typical of bureaucrats. Time simply slipped away.

Calling it a “joint operation” sounded good on paper, but in practice, it was two separate institutions investigating the same case with almost no coordination—competing for results. It was far from a healthy situation.

Just before lunch, he decided to take a short break and, while he was at it, looked into whether the Basset Hound breed—Ron’s—had any dietary requirements that differed from other dogs. He assigned one of the sub-monitors to that task.

“About this morning’s meeting… I get that you’re frustrated by the lack of progress, but taking it out on the Enforcers isn’t really like you, Gino-sensei, don’t you think?”

Sasayama had appeared unannounced and was now sitting across from his desk, interrupting the documents displayed on screen. He often chatted with others even during work hours. He proudly called himself a hopeless womanizer, and when there were female Inspectors or Enforcers nearby, he’d trail after them like a dog in heat. Currently, Division One was composed only of men, so his antics had tapered off—but when he hovered like this, he was still just as annoying.

“Get back to work,” Ginoza said sharply. “You’re in the way.”

“Oof, scary,” Sasayama replied, unfazed, staying right where he was. He craned his neck to glance at one of the sub-monitors behind Ginoza.

“Come on, Gino-sensei, if you’re on a break, let me chat a bit,” he said, eyeing the screen.

“Evidence review is part of my job,” Ginoza shot back curtly.

Ron hadn’t eaten that morning either. If this continued—considering his already poor nutritional state—the most serious outcome could be death from progressive weakness. Wouldn’t it be more appropriate, from an animal welfare standpoint, to turn him over to the Health Office?

But that agency mainly handled the culling of animals that had gone feral. In this case, since the animals had been stolen and were to be returned to their original owners, their handling should, in theory, be more careful. Still, given that Ron had belonged to a criminal, there was no telling how they might treat him. He could very well be subjected to all sorts of experiments under the guise of “analysis.” And if that happened, his decline would only accelerate.

That… Ginoza could not allow.

“If you’re that kind to the dog…” said Sasayama with a crooked smile, as if reading his thoughts, “couldn’t you spare a bit of that kindness for us, your loyal hounds?”

Ginoza said nothing.

Sasayama noticed, and let out a short, resigned laugh. But that attitude only fueled Ginoza’s irritation further.

“Hounds, you? Latent criminals?”

You, who must be confined simply for worsening the hue of those around you. You, who exist on the fringes of society. Don’t you dare call yourselves hounds of the law, as if you were its rightful agents. Don’t indulge in that ridiculous pretense just because you carry the title of Enforcers.

“What are we, then? Carriers of some contagious virus?” Sasayama replied with a half-smile, his tone unchanged.

“That’s not it.”

Ginoza stood from his seat and cast a glance around the entire Division One office. Kōgami and Masaoka were also watching the exchange, their expressions showing that something wasn’t right.

This was the moment. He had to make it absolutely clear.

“You are the virus. Never forget it: your very existence is a threat to others.”

His voice was cold. Merciless.

The atmosphere in the office froze instantly.

“Hey, Gino…”

Kōgami threw a sharp glance at Masaoka and stood up. He took a few steps toward Ginoza. His brow was furrowed, fists clenched. He was upset. Angry, maybe?

But he didn’t understand. Ginoza knew that. Kōgami still didn’t understand.

The man he admired so deeply—the one he saw as the archetype of the seasoned, stoic detective—was not who he thought he was.

“Inspector Ginoza, shall we go to lunch?”

Sasayama’s voice cut through the moment, delivered as if oblivious to the tension… but his movements were fast.

He stepped in just in time, blocking the imminent confrontation. He prevented Kōgami from getting any closer and left no room for Ginoza to retort. His action felt forced, but it worked. Without giving him a chance to resist, he grabbed Ginoza by the shoulder, spun him around, and shoved him straight out of Division One’s office.

With his slim build, Ginoza couldn’t put up much resistance. They headed directly to the break room.

The lounge, spacious and lined with a large glass wall to let in the light, was empty—as if someone had deliberately cleared it in advance.

The only sound in the room was the faint hum of the drink dispenser. The unmistakable smell of cigarettes lingered in the air: Sasayama was smoking one of his usual Spinnel, his preferred brand of hand-rolled tobacco. If he remembered correctly, the name referred to a thorn.

“…What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

Ginoza sat on a bench. Beside him, a cup of steaming coffee sat untouched; Sasayama had brought it for him. Instead, he was sipping from a paper cup he’d filled himself with something sugary from the dispenser. The taste was deliberately cloying. On the side of the cup, the Public Safety Bureau’s cheerful mascot beamed with an innocent smile.

“That’s a question I should be asking you, Gino-sensei,” Sasayama replied, leaning his shoulder against the wall and exhaling a cloud of smoke.

“We know perfectly well that we’re society’s outcasts. And I’m not saying that dramatically. Look, I’ve done stuff that easily could’ve landed me in a cell with no right to complain. But what you said today… you crossed a line. What’s going on with you? Back in the old Division One, you had other Enforcers under your command—but you weren’t this hostile. At least, not this blunt.”

“I just said what’s plainly true.”

Ginoza replied curtly, coldly, as if trying to end the conversation. But Sasayama, like smoke, let the words pass through him, answering lightly—almost calmly.

“Is this about Kōgami?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Process of elimination,” said Sasayama, with a faint smile. “I’ve been working with you since before. Masaoka hasn’t shown any problematic behavior—at least compared to other Enforcers. But Kōgami… the way he interacts with Enforcers… He doesn’t act like an Inspector, does he, Gino-sensei? Does it bother you when an Inspector gets along with Enforcers?”

“…Of course it does.”

“Sure. Makes sense.”

“What?”

Ginoza frowned, surprised that Sasayama agreed with him so easily.

“We Enforcers are tools for the Inspectors. Nothing more.”

But then, as if he couldn’t hold it back, he added:

“…And a tool can either save—or kill—the one who wields it.”

“Are you suggesting a rebellion?”

Ginoza looked at him sharply.

“What kind of nonsense is that?” Sasayama scoffed, laughing it off without concern. “I’ve got no complaints about my handler. You’ve always done the job right as an Inspector. But lately… well, your attitude’s been a little off. Isn’t it true that our work has a purpose?”

Was he being flippant? No. Sasayama wasn’t one to joke in situations like this.

Ginoza took a moment before answering. He carefully selected a reply that he believed to be correct, logical, irrefutable.

“Our job is to deal with latent criminals who threaten the order of this society.”

“Then make sure you don’t mistake your enemy, Gino-sensei. You don’t have to treat Enforcers as your equals. But if you treat them properly—whether as tools or as people—it’ll show you the best way to use them. Learn how to handle a hound.”

“It never hurts to know how to handle a hound. Kōgami figured that out, didn’t he? Though… maybe he’s getting a bit too close for comfort. Still, between carrot and stick, I guess that’s not the worst balance.”

With that, Sasayama fell silent. He finished the rest of his cigarette and left the lounge, tossing out a passing comment about how attractive the lunch staffer was today.

Ginoza, for his part, drank what was left of the soda—but the cloying sweetness clung to his tongue. He picked up the coffee that had been sitting beside him and took a long sip. It was cold, but its bitterness cleansed his palate.

When his shift ended, he left the office without a word. No one to greet. No one to say goodbye to.

By the time he returned to the office later, Kōgami and the others had already left to continue the search for the animal therapist. They weren’t expected back until nightfall. Sasayama, after lunch, had come back briefly before announcing he was heading to the lab to retrieve the test results. He hadn’t returned since. He was probably off trying to seduce—or at the very least, annoy—some lab technician.

When he stepped outside, the air was still cold, but without wind, it didn’t bite as sharply as it had the day before. As he walked toward the station, Ginoza came across a holographic display decorating the plaza entrance with a show of vibrant lights: ribbons of scarlet floated in the air like silken strands, swaying gently, rippling without pause.

A couple walking ahead of him reached out toward one of the virtual ribbons, as if trying to tug on it. At that moment, a gigantic chocolate heart appeared in the sky, followed by a rain of colorful candies and decorations.

The show ended in a burst of lights. “Place your order now for a gift to your partner, friend, or loved one.” [3]

It was an advertisement for a large department store in Shinjuku preparing for its Valentine’s Day campaign. It was an event that held absolutely no appeal for Ginoza—but for some reason, in that moment, he made the decision to call a taxi and told the driver to take him to the mall.

During the ride, he reviewed all the documentation he had on Ron. He didn’t manage to go through every detail, but he was able to formulate a hypothesis. At last, he understood what had been slipping past him all this time.

The shopping center was crowded. As soon as he entered, a concierge avatar offered to let him try on spring outfits in the men’s fashion hologram section, but Ginoza cut it off and asked to be directed straight to the pet goods department. He didn’t have to wait long. They handed him exactly what he needed—no shortages, no excess. He paid and asked for the items to be wrapped. It wasn’t so much that he couldn’t carry it, but he didn’t feel like taking the train home, so he called a taxi for the return trip.

When he arrived, as always, Dime came out to greet him. This time, though, he seemed a little irritated. Was he mad that Ginoza had taken so long? Or was he just impatient to be fed? Probably both.

Still carrying the shopping bags, Ginoza went straight to the kitchen. He served Dime’s food from the dispenser and spoke to him as he did—though perhaps his words were directed not only at Dime, but also at the silent guest who hadn’t moved from his place in the living room for hours.

“What one of my subordinates said during lunch… stuck with me,” Ginoza began. “And it made me reconsider everything. I was so focused on keeping you alive as case evidence that I forgot what I really should have done first.”

While Dime continued eating, Ginoza opened the paper bag and took out several packs of dog food he had bought. He laid them out on the kitchen counter, set out several bowls, and served a portion of each kind. Then he brought them all into the living room.

“Animal behavior is a form of language. No matter how incomprehensible it may seem, if you’re patient, you can understand it. Maybe you’re thinking I’m an idiot for not realizing sooner. After all, just remembering what you did before we captured you should have made it obvious.”

Ron, still lying on his bed, glanced at the bowls that Ginoza was lining up in front of him. He didn’t move yet.

“I found it strange that, despite being so skilled at avoiding traps and hunting prey after prey, you were so thin when we caught you. Were you saving food for your owner? Or was it just a habit repeated for too long? I can’t say for sure. But right now, that’s not what matters. Not what happened with the prey, but your own behavior.”

“Basset Hounds, despite how adorable they look, weren’t originally bred as pets,” he continued. “They were bred to be hounds. Dogs built for the hunt.”

Ron moved one of his ears, just once, in a faint gesture. His nose twitched slightly, as if picking up a scent.

With effort, he lifted his head and looked at Ginoza.

“It’s said that some hounds, trained to deliver prey without consuming it, are raised on a vegetarian diet,” he went on. “Tell me, Dime… is it possible that you don’t want to eat meat either?”

In front of Ron’s bed were several bowls filled with different types of food. The first contained food made from real meat. Next to it, a high-end commercial option—meatless, but engineered from ultra-processed oats and chemically adjusted to replicate the precise aromatic compounds that dogs identify and prefer in meat-based products.

And finally, the last: a plain oat base. No additives, no animal fragrances, no attractants. Raw. Tasteless. Originally formulated for dogs needing customized diets—especially for palliative care. Rarely served like this, unmixed.

And then, Ron slowly rose. With his three legs, he moved forward toward the bowls… and began to eat. He chose that one. The simplest. The purest.

He ate even more slowly than Dime. He chewed each grain carefully, deliberately. When he tried to swallow, he choked a little, a faint sound escaping from his throat.

Ginoza reacted immediately. He knelt down, held Ron’s body between his legs to steady him, and brought the water bowl to his mouth. Ron drank with a subtle tilt of his head. Then, he resumed eating. It took him more than thirty minutes to finish.

Ron ate slowly, grain by grain, like a devoted pilgrim who, after a long journey, honors the offering of bread and water with gratitude—no matter how hungry he is. With a serene and composed demeanor, he kept eating without ever losing his poise.

It seemed like the right answer.

Ginoza sighed in relief and reached out to remove the untouched bowls. Suddenly, he felt a gentle bite on his fingers.

It was Dime.

He had finished eating long ago, but the smell of meat had drawn him into the living room. With bright eyes, he approached the remaining dishes as if to say, “Is today a special occasion?” and tried to stick his nose in one of them. But Ginoza was quicker—he caught him by the neck before he could reach the food.

“Hey. You’re old. You can’t overeat. Wait until tomorrow.”

Dime, frustrated, looked at him with a heartbroken expression and let out a low, pitiful whine. Then he began circling Ginoza’s legs insistently, pleading sweetly for a change of heart—making it impossible for him to take even a step.

Meanwhile, Ron watched them in silence. His gaze was calm, almost analytical, as if evaluating the scene in front of him. Then, he flicked his long ears twice, a soft, measured pat-pat.

Translation Notes:

[1] Here, the translation refers to a “deathbed,” but the state Ginoza’s mother is in at that moment is more akin to a coma (let’s remember that Sae suffers from Eustress Deficiency Disorder, as shown in Sinners of the System Case 2). This could be a dissonance either with canon or with Ginoza’s perception of Sae’s condition.

[2] Ashkenazi —also spelled Asquenazi, Askenazi, or Askenazí— is the term used to refer to Jews who settled in Central and Eastern Europe.

Traducción al español (estan las seis partes completas), acá

A distant howl echoed through the night. A lament that had emerged somewhere on the mountain, where the trees stood tall like a sharp, solemn crest, reverberated again and again against the invisible dome that seemed to stretch from the zenith of the sky across the entire land—striking, over and over, some translucent lid. It vibrated with the persistence of a sound trapped within a suikinkutsu*, that garden of water-born echoes where tones continue to shimmer long after being released. A long, dense resonance lingered in the air.

And shortly after, as if arriving late, came another roar. Deep and prolonged. So profoundly melancholic in tone that it resembled the cry of a wolf forced to part from its pack forever.

Nobuchika Ginoza closed his eyes and strained to pinpoint the source, but it was in vain. Human hearing lacked such spatial precision. That exchange of voices, carried nightly from deep within the mountains, sounded like hidden sages laughing quietly at the chaotic folly of men. Tonight marked exactly one week. One week spent searching for a single dog, far from the human din.

The whisper of trees carried by the wind remained confined to this mountainous zone near the capital. In truth, these frigid nights—so cold they seemed to freeze even the dazzling shimmer of the night sky under the celestial dome—didn’t bother him, but perhaps the time had come to say farewell in silence.

As he climbed the slope, a small clearing opened before Ginoza’s eyes. The snow, lightly accumulated but hardened over time, reflected a moonlit blue hue that gradually deepened to a dark cobalt as it approached the forest’s edge. The forest was formed of towering tsuga trees. These evergreen conifers, known also as “the trees of the hanged” due to an old legend about executed criminals, grew closely together as if seeking warmth, casting a heavy darkness at their feet—like a protective curtain shielding the dead from further shame beyond death.

On the snowy ground, countless pawprints appeared, as if a whole pack of dogs had raced toward the shadowy woods. But on closer inspection, it became clear they all bore the exact same shape. It wasn’t a pack. It was one dog.

Ginoza instructed his companion to unearth one of the surveillance drones they’d hidden underground. The unit had been stripped of its mobile legs, and its casing—save for the lens—was fully covered in animal hide. As they pulled it out, soil clung to the Honshu deer fur and broke away in crumbling clods. His companion, grimacing at the smell, removed his gloves—also made from the same deer leather—while Ginoza programmed the drone to extract only the relevant segment from its vast cache of footage.

Data began transferring to the wrist-worn device he carried, watch-like in shape, and soon everything was ready for playback.

Ginoza looked again at the snow-covered plain marked by tracks, while overlaying the drone’s recording directly onto his retinas via directional hologram.

The dog was terribly thin, yet even with its prey clutched in its jaws, it didn’t stop to eat. It simply crossed the plain with majestic calm. In front of the tsuga forest, it began to perform a strange dance, as if offering a prayer to the goddess of the moon, sovereign of winter’s longest nights. Did it mean something? Or was it merely instinct? Whatever it was, the animal seemed to relish it.

And then, suddenly—it vanished. With a magnificent leap that activated every muscle in its body, it hurled itself into the darkness spun by the thick needle-like leaves of the trees and disappeared within it.

Ginoza slid the recording back to just before that moment. He froze the image right as the dog was about to enter the forest. He zoomed in on the captured frame. It was pixelated. Using AI, he extracted the dog’s silhouette and applied a quick correction to generate a sharp image, akin to a high-precision camera still.

The result was oddly absurd. The body traced a perfect arc, like a dancer on the verge of completing a final pose, but the animal’s mouth hung open—excessively so—as if caught in surprise. It didn’t seem to be barking. The expression didn’t match. Moreover, the prey it had carried was no longer visible in the image. That was the work of the AI’s censorship system. Most likely, the state of the prey was so horrifying that it had been flagged as potentially disturbing and automatically removed to preserve the viewer’s mental stability.

But someone else, besides him, needed to verify that footage. After all, they were members of the Criminal Investigation Department—guardians of Sibyl’s society. For Nobuchika Ginoza, in his capacity as an Inspector, the protection of the Psycho-Pass carried a deeper significance than it did for the average citizen.

“Sasayama. Tell me what the dog had in its mouth,” he ordered.

The moment he spoke, his glasses fogged up and his vision blurred, as though a layer of frost had settled over his eyes. It was the vapor of his breath, escaping from beneath the scarf wrapped up to his mouth.

“What a way to treat people…” Sasayama grumbled.

The Enforcer from Division One squinted at the uncensored holographic projection. Despite the freezing air well below zero, he wore only a stylish pinstriped suit, leather gloves, and a scarf. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel the cold—his nose was slightly red at the tip.

“Don’t talk nonsense. Report, immediately,” Ginoza snapped, wiping the condensation from his lenses with a cloth as he shot him a glare.

“Yeah, yeah…” muttered Sasayama, shrugging as he raised one thumb and mimed slitting his own throat with the other. “It was a chicken. I guess it bit right into its throat and killed it in one go. Everything from the neck up was soaked in blood… But that’s the weird part. The dog didn’t have a single drop of blood on its fur.”

“I see…”

“What’s going on, Gino-sensei? Don’t leave me out of the revelation…”

“Was it a domestic bird that had already been bled out before the dog attacked it?”

Ginoza manipulated the device on his wrist, accessing the regional flora and fauna distribution map. In the area, records showed the presence of chickens raised under a broiler system*.

There were no reports of broiler chickens living in the wild. If that was the case, the dog had attacked a domestic bird from an inhabited zone.

“Let’s go,” said Ginoza, setting off. “We’ll be the ones to protect that dog.”

He turned his back on the clearing, descended the slope, and looked down at the hollow stretching below. A few scattered houses shimmered like gemstones sunk into the dark bed of a lake, reflecting the moonlight in trembling ripples.

It had all started with a report on animal reintroduction in a suburban area west of Tokyo.

Since the mid-21st century, the presence of live animals had steadily decreased, becoming a rarity by the 22nd century. Breeding animals was considered a luxury, a pastime almost exclusively reserved for the wealthy elite. Animal reintroduction was seen as an effort to return survival skills to species that, due to overprotection, had lost their instinct to fend for themselves. Since many urban developments built during old housing projects had been abandoned due to drastic population decline, those places had reverted to wooded terrain with abundant vegetation. It was believed that natural conditions were sufficient for released animals to survive on their own.

But history had already proven that assumption wrong. Animals domesticated over generations—raised and bred as pets or livestock—could hardly survive in the wild. Most died soon after release. And those that did manage to survive eventually descended into inhabited areas as savage raiders, stealing food and being classified as pests. A special division was eventually created within the Health Office, under the Ministry of Welfare, tasked with eliminating them. Thus, animal reintroduction ironically became a policy that turned against itself and was ultimately declared illegal. To this day, that remains the case.

However, the reintroduction incident this time, in the Okutama region, involved an even more serious crime. Every animal that had been released had an owner. The person responsible for the reintroduction was an animal therapist named Yōnobu Miyake, who ran a clinic on the outskirts of the city. Apparently, he was quite skilled and had earned the full trust of the affluent elite.

However, earlier this year, for reasons unknown, he released all the companion animals entrusted to him into the wild… and then vanished without a trace. His actions were as inexplicable as they were costly: they caused considerable losses. It was, in every sense, theft. The Public Safety Bureau took charge of tracking down the therapist Miyake as a suspect, while the Health Office was tasked with capturing the stolen animals. The two agencies coordinated a joint operation.

As part of that investigation, Nobuchika Ginoza and Enforcer Sasayama headed into the mountain region. Their target was a single dog. That dog, once the property of the cunning therapist, had turned into a silent hunter after being set free. Unlike other reintroduced animals that had settled into the mountains, this one avoided the wild dog traps laid out by the Ministry’s capture unit and continued to hunt freely, with unnerving composure.

Even since a week ago, when Ginoza and his team began participating in the capture effort, the situation had remained unchanged. But now, at last, something had begun to shift. The dog… had started descending into inhabited areas in search of prey.

It was too late that night to return to the city, so they slept in the car. At dawn, before the sun had fully risen, Ginoza and Sasayama began their descent toward the village nestled in the valley. The first light of morning was beginning to trace itself softly along the mountain ridges, as if sketching the outline of a wolf resting in the mist. Its diffused glow, hidden within the morning haze, slowly warmed the earth as the Public Safety Bureau sedan followed the narrow road along the slope.

Sasayama, in the passenger seat, was cursing while fiddling with his Enforcer-issued restraint device, shaped like a pair of handcuffs. Ginoza ignored him. The Ministry of Welfare had rejected their request for cooperation. It wasn’t hard to understand why. After all, they were encroaching on someone else’s jurisdiction. The Public Safety Bureau had the authority to act across domains using its special powers, but from the perspective of other government bodies, they were little more than a nuisance—intervening at will under the pretense of law enforcement. Still, Ginoza thought, at least they weren’t being actively obstructed.

Before long, they turned onto a rural road leading to the settlement in the mountain basin.

The land sloped downward in gentle hills: the houses clustered along the higher points, while further below stretched rows of chicken coops, stables, and vegetable plots. At a glance, the place seemed like a relic from another time. But as they stopped the car on the incline and rolled down the window, a faint mechanical hum could be heard. It came from agricultural drones, busy tending livestock and managing crop growth.

Ginoza stepped out of the vehicle, intending to head toward a farm where the dog had stolen poultry. He ordered Sasayama to retrieve the capture net case from the trunk.

The mountain air was thicker and more humid than in the city, and the cold seemed to seep through his coat as though it were penetrating straight into his skin. The house targeted in the attack was easy to locate, but it was empty.

Through the settlement’s administrator, they had already secured entry permission the night before. Officially, the village was registered as an agricultural recreation facility—a place where people could spend weekends engaging with nature in a measured way, seeking solace for the spirit. The wooden houses with tiled roofs were rented out as country homes, and guests could opt for the experience of caring for animals or crops. If one accepted the risk of tone fluctuation, it was also possible to consume pre-butchered meat. The chicken that the dog had taken the night before had been attacked right in the middle of that preparation process.

Next to the coop stood a processing unit. Several conical hoppers were lined up, designed to hang chickens upside down and insert their heads into the receptacle. The entire process—from bleeding to meat handling—was fully automated. Sanitary management was so strict that not even the faintest trace of blood could be smelled. Underground, the facility housed water and sewage pipes, electrical supply, and data wiring. Though presented as a rural retreat, the infrastructure rivaled that of any urban area.

They searched all the houses and structures in the area and ultimately decided to set traps centered around the coop, within the stable zone. The dog wasn’t large enough to take on animals in the pig or cattle barns, so those areas were ruled out. They were up against a skilled hunter—one capable of selecting its prey with precision.

Once the morning had passed and the sun had risen high in the sky, they returned briefly to the eaves of one of the houses and opened the case containing the auxiliary equipment. They took out the tripwire and boiled it for fifteen minutes in water they had set to boil earlier. During that time, Sasayama, taking a short break, pulled a pack of paper cigarettes from his breast pocket. Ginoza sternly ordered him to smoke downwind. If the scent of tobacco lingered in the air, the dog might pick it up.

Once the preparation was complete, Ginoza had an agricultural drone—the same type used in meat processing—bring over the materials they had prepared in advance: a pair of gloves soaked in the blood of a freshly slaughtered chicken, sealed airtight. He ordered Sasayama to put them on.

“Hold on a second, Gino-sensei,” Sasayama grumbled, visibly displeased. “Even I’d end up with a clouded hue after this.”

“If you’re an Enforcer, you shouldn’t be concerned about your hue deteriorating,” Ginoza said flatly. “We don’t have time. Do it now.”

Before dusk, all the traps had been set. Ginoza and Sasayama left the settlement, drove back to the paved road along the slope, and spent the night there, taking turns napping inside the vehicle. They kept the lights off, monitoring without pause the real-time feed from the drone mounted on the roof of one of the houses, facing directly toward the stables.

Ginoza adjusted the loose scarf around his neck. The cold was biting, but necessary. They had shut off the engine to leave no trace of their presence.

Wrapped in blankets, Sasayama exhaled sharply.

“Damn it… I swear I’m never doing anything like this again. The suit reeks of chicken, and there’s no way to get rid of the smell.”

He had ended up taking off his coat and was now in just his shirt.

They had also laid out a mat woven with chicken feathers, which no doubt intensified the stench even further. And yes… it really stank.

But it didn’t matter. There would be no second chance. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. They had to catch him here and now. The dog was cornered, pushed to its limit, with no freedom to choose its prey.

According to footage retrieved from the Health Office’s archives—obtained on Ginoza’s order by an analyst operating from the shadows—the animal had managed to survive thus far by hunting wild rabbits, pheasants, and other forest creatures. But the previous night, for the first time, it had descended into an inhabited area. That single act confirmed everything.

Despite having been released, the target still behaved like the loyal dog of its former owner, the therapist. Even in freedom, it hadn’t attacked the other reintroduced animals, which would have been easy prey. Instead, it had deliberately risked its life by heading for the settlement’s stables.

As soon as he set foot on solid ground, Ginoza advanced with firm steps along the frozen path, the frost crunching beneath his boots. The cold of the winter morning was sharper than ever, but the bright light of a cloudless sky warmed the body. Removing his scarf, he noticed a thin layer of sweat on his neck. The frigid air, like the tongue of a beast made of ice, slid across his warm skin with a chilling softness that ran down his spine. It was a strange sensation—but not unpleasant.

The dog had been caught.

It was trapped beside the meat processing facility, next to the chicken coop. The bait—a hanging chicken—remained in place, still suspended upside down, its head protruding from one of the metal cones, already bled dry, motionless in the silence of death. A wire ran from its mouth to the drainage system on the ground, and nearby, placed at a discreet angle, was a single-use paralyzer shaped like a sphere, with its internal mechanism exposed.

Right next to it lay a dog—compact in build, covered in dense fur, with short legs, long drooping ears, and an expressive, gentle face. It was most likely a Basset Hound*. It lay on its side as if dead, completely still. But when Ginoza approached in silence, gently stroking its fur so as not to startle it and checking for signs of breathing, he felt a calm, steady pulse. It was alive.

“Are you sure this is the one?” asked Sasayama, unfolding a portable cage for transport. “I don’t want it to turn out to be one of those other reintroduced dogs.”

“There’s no mistake. It’s this one.”

Ginoza knelt down and reached out to examine the animal’s collar. That was when their eyes met. The dog was conscious. It tried to lift its neck with effort, baring its teeth in a weak attempt to defend itself from the perceived threat—but it had no strength left. For at least a few days, it wouldn’t be able to move properly.

“It’s all right,” Ginoza said, carefully feeling the collar. “We had to use a rather harsh method to catch you. But I promise—no one will hurt you again. My name is Nobuchika Ginoza. Ron… I’ve come to protect you.”

He spoke the name engraved on the collar’s tag and gently stroked the dog’s fur. He was especially cautious when touching the area at the base of the front leg—or what remained of it. Part of the limb was missing. It was so well hidden beneath the fur that it must have been lost long ago. The fact that it had managed to hunt so skillfully on just three legs… filled him with admiration. For a moment, he wondered what could have happened to cause such an injury—but he let the thought go, and lifted the dog in his arms.

With care, Ginoza placed the dog inside the cage Sasayama had prepared.

Thus began the forty days they would share… until Separation. Notes: * Suikinkutsu: A traditional Japanese garden ornament and musical device. It consists of an upside-down ceramic pot buried underground, which creates delicate, echoing sounds when water drips into it—a subtle, contemplative soundscape meant to accompany purification rituals.

* Broiler system: A method of intensive poultry farming focused on rapid weight gain. Chickens raised this way are bred for meat production and typically live in controlled environments without access to the outdoors. They are not suited for survival in the wild.

Traducción al español, acá ES: Holis! En el día de ayer me llego (despues de mucho) la novela de Psycho Pass The Movie y estuive revisándola un poco, mas que nada por curiosidad, y aunque se que @cleverwolfpoetry esta realizando la traduccion de la novela, me intereso especialmente este pasaje, y realmente necesitaba publicarlo (lo traduje con ayuda de Lens y ChatGPT, sencillamente porque no se japones) --- EN: Hey! Yesterday, I finally received (after a long wait) the Psycho-Pass: The Movie novel, and I started going through it a bit, mostly out of curiosity. Even though I know that @cleverwolfpoetry is currently working on translating the novel, this particular passage caught my attention, and I really felt the need to share it. (I translated it with the help of Lens and ChatGPT, since I don't know Japanese.)

For more reference, Tougadani appears in the all stars react (here, translated by @cleverwolfpoetry)

--- It was still a recent memory: the moment Shinya Kogami had joined Sem and the others in the resistance. Kogami had killed a man named Tougadani, who had been obstructing the resistance's movements. Tougadani, who had presented himself as a Japanese government official, had also tried to provoke him. Originally, he had been a man tasked with the "dirty work" at the Ministry of Welfare. “There was a little incident in Japan,” Tougadani had said. “A story about an invisible man. I won’t go into details, but it seriously shook the bureaucratic apparatus controlling the system. Some were ousted—and consequently eliminated.” That was the story Tougadani had told. Before the purge reached him, he had fled Japan. Perhaps he thought that someone like Kogami, who had fallen from grace in a similar way, might turn out to be an ally. Before killing him, Kogami had spoken to Tougadani through his portable terminal.

“Hey, Tougadani...” he said. “Our situations are kind of similar, aren’t they? Do you still feel nostalgic for your life in Japan? Still wish you could go back?”

“That’s...”

“Kindred spirits end up killing each other.” Predators competing for the same territory cannot coexist.

“Farewell.” And he pulled the trigger.

On the rooftop of a skyscraper overlooking the port area, Kogami worked the bolt of his anti-materiel rifle.

“Hit confirmed. He’s going up in flames,” reported Samlin, acting as his spotter, his voice charged with excitement.

“Armor-piercing incendiary round... I used a large high-powered projectile.”

“A headshot from fifteen hundred meters away...? What kind of aim is that...?”

“The shooting assist system on the terminal still works,” Kogami replied. “Benefits of high technology.”

“And if you didn’t have all that tech?”

“I’d find another way. If I had to.”

“You’re really something, Kogami.”

“What’s the matter, Samlin? No matter how much you flatter me, you’re not getting anything out of it.”

Kogami quickly disassembled the rifle and stored it in its carrying case.

“Pulling out.”

Samlin watched him with eyes that seemed almost to idolize him, as if he were looking at a hero.

Since then, time had passed... and Samlin had also died. Kogami bore no resentment toward the Public Safety Bureau for it. Samlin had been a valuable man, yes, but he had also been reckless to the point of carrying out a retaliatory terrorist attack against Japan on his own—a course of action that both Kogami and Sem had always opposed. There was no excuse for that. Of course, there was no doubt that someone had whispered tempting promises into Samlin’s ear to manipulate him... but even so. Then came Akane Tsunemori. Sem died too. The price was steep. But at least, in this country, democratic elections had finally been held. As for the outcome of those elections, Kogami had no right to comment. The will of the people was all that mattered.

Before leaving the place, there was something Kogami had to do. Was Samlin truly beyond salvation? Was it really so?

“This is it...” He had finally found Tougadani’s operations center—the one he had been searching for all this time. It was hidden in an old office building, disguised as a small transportation company. Since they had no prior intel about the location, it had taken quite a while to track it down.

A reinforced electronic lock guarded the main entrance. Just beyond it, an explosive trap rigged with grenades blocked the first hallway. Even just getting inside had meant overcoming several obstacles.

The interior was saturated with the typical smell of poorly ventilated places: dampness, rotting wood, and a faint acidic trace lingering in the stagnant air.

“Well then...” On a desk, he found a laptop enclosed in an armored case. However, he couldn’t afford to let his guard down. He had no way of knowing where the data self-destruction traps were placed. If it were up to him, he would have installed a system that wiped everything just by entering a wrong password. Tougadani had likely done the same.

“Your turn, Choe Gu Song...”

Kogami connected his portable terminal to Tougadani’s laptop via a wireless network. The terminal was a modified device he had found in Shogo Makishima’s hideout. It had been prepared by Choe Gu Song, a top-level hacker, and contained a variety of specialized programs: decryption tools, password-breaking systems, and other cracking resources. Now, those tools were beginning to probe through Tougadani’s laptop.

Since Tougadani’s assassination, there had been no signs that anyone else had accessed the device. Kogami took his time meticulously combing through the data. He found records of Tougadani’s activities abroad, as well as documents detailing illegal operations carried out to facilitate the international expansion of the Sibyl System. Maybe, he thought, that information would prove useful someday. He copied some of the records onto his terminal.

However, the piece of information he most wanted to find remained elusive. There was one file in particular, heavily encrypted. According to the covert performance monitor embedded in the system, an AI was still running in the background. An automatic update? Or perhaps a data-collection program?

Kogami instructed Choe Gu Song’s programs to begin decrypting the file. He knew that if he failed, it could trigger an evidence self-destruction protocol. But standing idle was not an option.

The file opened. Kogami’s eyes widened, surprised by what he found inside.

It was a top-secret file from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Apparently, Tougadani—formerly an official at the Ministry of Welfare—had hacked into the Special Operations Division of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Snakes walking along snakes’ paths... something like that.

Kogami dug deeper into the classified documents. And at last, he found the answer he had been searching for.

“So this was it...”

The Special Operations Division of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs had contacted Samlin and his group, providing them with a means to enter Japan illegally. They had also supplied them with high-tech equipment, such as advanced-functionality glasses and other cutting-edge devices. The people at the Ministry had surely lured them skillfully, telling them that, ultimately, their actions would serve a greater good.

Even within the Japanese government, there were factions at odds with each other: a group existed that opposed the international expansion of the Sibyl System. The Ministry’s agents had not only helped them infiltrate the country; they had also implanted a special "mindset" into Samlin and his men, using drugs, to make them resistant to potential interrogations through memory scoops by the Public Safety Bureau. In the end, it had all been nothing more than a dance performed in the palm of the system’s hand.