Smoking Asters

12 year old me:

on survival

When you belong to an organization, they make you do things you don't wanna do. I'm pretty fed up with it. 

INITIALIZING…

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.

SHINYA KOGAMI 🧡

サイコパス S3 Ep. 02: Teumessian sacrifices

Note before reading: sentences in italics represent the character’s thoughts; sentences between square brackets are phone/radio conversations or the voice of dominators or other electronic devices.

1

At the gate of Shambala Float, Tsunemori was asked to leave her weapons. She was a little irritated at being treated like an enemy, but she didn’t consider the government forces to be her allies either.  She reminded herself that she had gone so far with her actions on the battlefield that it couldn’t be helped.

Surrounded by soldiers of the National Military Police soldiers, Tsunemori was forced to walk at gunpoint. After a lift to the top floor, she was taken to the courtyard of the National Military Police dormitory. There, a grim-faced Nicholas was waiting for her.            

“…No matter how important you are as a guest, our patience has a limit…”

“Important guest? You tried to kill me.”

“It was because you were working with a guerrilla.”

“That was part of the investigation.”

“Why can’t you understand that this is ‘our country’? You are confined and will be forcibly repatriated to Japan on the next airfreight.”

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.