#kitsuragixreader

The Chief exhales through his nose like he expected that answer. “Not this time, Kutsuragi. This case has…” he hesitates, choosing the right words, “political optics. Too much union involvement, not enough results. They want new eyes on it.”

Kim presses his lips together. He was talking about the Sonderborg case- sabotage at the harbor docks. Explosives. Some suggest a union cover-up. It’s been sitting on his desk for three weeks, slow-moving and full of awful smells.

Empathy: He doesn’t want help. But he knows he needs it.

Logic: The transfer is already approved. Objecting is pointless.

“They’re unconventional,” the Chief adds, after a beat. “But they get results.”

“Unconventional,” Kim echoes, as though he’s tasting the word, and finding it suspicious.

The Chief smirks, tired. “You’ll see.”

At that exact moment, someone knocks on the frame of the open door. The nylon of Kim’s jacket rustles as he glances behind him.

You walk in.

You do not look like a cop. You look like someone who once was a cop, then stopped being one for aesthetic reasons. Your coat is too large, draped half-hazardly over your shoulders. Your boots are scuffed, but shined, like you did the work and then went walking through something awful anyway.

You nod once at the Chief. Then at Kim.

“Lieutenant Kitsuragi,” you say, voice even, not too warm, not cold. “A pleasure.”

Volition: That wasn’t sarcastic. They mean that.

Kim stands. “Detective.”

He doesn’t offer his hand. Neither do you. The silence between you is… efficient. It lasts long enough to be acknowledged but not long enough to be awkward.

“Let’s brief them,” the Chief mutters, gesturing. “They’ve read the file, but they’ll need your current notes.”

You walk past Kim, and he watches as you do- not your face, but your eyes. They settle on him. Only him.

Inland Empire: They’ve already read you. Like a story they remember from childhood. The ending, especially.

Composure: Keep your face neutral. 

Kim clears his throat once, unnecessarily. “Follow me.”

You do.

The hallway to the briefing room reeks of burnt coffee, permanent marker, and the special brand of institutional fatigue unique to the 57th. Old paint curls in strips from the corners of the molding. One of the overhead fluorescents buzzes with a dying pulse. It’s nothing if not consistent.

You trail three paces behind Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi, matching his pace without matching his gait. Your footfalls are softer than his, deliberate, silent. He doesn’t glance back to check if you’re keeping up. He doesn’t need to.

He can feel you. There’s a hum behind his shoulder blades, like static electricity just before the air snaps. 

He reaches the door and opens it without ceremony. The hinges let out a groan he doesn’t bother to acknowledge. He steps aside, gestures for you to enter ahead of him, to anyone else it would have looked courteous, but you could tell- to him it was just protocol.

You step through the threshold like you’ve already been here before.

Your eyes move first. The scan is fast, methodical, layered. Window. Air vents. Exit door. The warped ceiling tile stained by old water damage. A dent in the side of the filing cabinet that someone tried to hammer flat and clearly gave up on halfway through. You note everything. Your gaze skims the room like floodlights across a dark field; and then lands, finally, on him.

You smile.

Kim doesn’t return it.

SUGGESTION: Smile back. Just to see what they do. AUTHORITY: Absolutely not.

“Lieutenant Kitsuragi,” you say again, same tone you used downstairs.

He slides past you with the whisper of his coat and takes the chair opposite yours.

“It’s just Lieutenant,” Kim replies, dryly.

You nod hearing him, but then deliberately say it again. “Lieutenant Kitsuragi.” A flicker of amusement ghosts at the corner of your mouth. You sit. He doesn’t look at you as he opens the folder, but his attention sharpens all the same. He lays out several photographs with the same careful, quiet efficiency he uses on everything.

Scorched metal. Frayed wires. A melted pressure switch curled like a dead insect.

“We recovered these from the docks,” he begins. “Industrial-grade incendiary compound. Remotely triggered. We believe the saboteur used a stolen transmitter.”

You lean forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped- interested. Like you’re already three steps into a theory you haven’t said out loud yet. Your eyes track across the photos like you're dissecting terrain. Your brow furrows slightly, mouth ticking just to the side.

“Hmm.” A soft sound. Thoughtful, but not impressed. “Crude. But it’s precise work, like someone wanted to scare, not kill.”

He pauses for a second. Then says, flatly:

“Or wanted it to look like that.”

Your eyes snap to his and you hold his gaze. There it is again! The thing he clocked in the first ten seconds of meeting you. The way you look at him like you’re parsing. Like you’re used to seeing through people, and you're still deciding whether he’s the exception or the same as the rest.

You nod, once. “Good point.”

A beat.

Then: “You think they’re union? Trying to make some kind of statement?”

“No.” Kim’s answer is immediate. Clipped. Certain. “It’s too polished. This isn’t amateur hour. But…” He hesitates, “Yes, this is a message.”

You nod again, slower this time, brows lifting. “To who?”

He meets your gaze without blinking. “That’s what we’re going to find out.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then you lean back and stretch your arms behind your head, spine arching slightly; a casual, feline gesture that betrays zero tension. Like you live in your body and everyone else just rents theirs.

Half Light: They’re testing you. Seeing how far they can push before you blink.

Logic: This is behavioral mirroring. They’re mirroring you.

“So,” you say, tone unreadable. “What’s your plan, Lieutenant Kitsuragi?”

The way you say his full name is not mocking, but it’s… deliberate. Like you enjoy how it sounds. Like you’re collecting the syllables as they roll off your tongue.

Kim levels a look at you. “My plan is to examine the transmitter origin point. And for you to follow orders.”

You raise one eyebrow, just slightly.

“Cute,” you say. “But I’m here to collaborate. Not play fetch.”

Kim narrows his eyes. You grin.

Empathy: They’re not mocking you. They’re inviting you in. Careful.

Inland Empire: There’s something strange about them. Something familiar. Like an echo of someone you once trusted too much.

He closes the folder and turns to the collage on the adjacent wall. The case board is a half-collapsed cork slab nailed to the poorly painted wall.

Photos are pinned with mismatched tacks. A crude sketch of the harbor, drawn in red grease pencil, bisects the board diagonally; this is Kim’s own handiwork. The transmitter schematics sit off to one side, annotated in his tight, elegant handwriting.

You move in front of it, hands in your pockets, rocking back slightly on your heels. You point finally, not to the explosion site, but the exit path drawn beneath it.

“This route,” you say. “They knew where the security gaps were. Either inside help… or they’ve done this before.”

Kim considers.

Logic: They’re right. The access route was deliberately chosen.

Drama: Are they showing off?

Suggestion: Test them. Push.

“What was the time gap between ignition and fire department arrival?” he asks, eyes sharp.

You don’t look at him. You stare at the board.

“Seventeen minutes,” you answer. “Too fast for a civilian call. Someone inside must’ve pulled it.”

Kim’s jaw ticks- it was the smallest movement. You didn’t even pause to think. You shift your weight, glancing sideways at him.

“I read your notes,” you say. “Before I got here.”

“You read fast.”

“You write clearly.”

Kim doesn’t respond. He just walks past you, toward the desk near the wall. You follow.

There’s a moment where you’re standing just slightly too close behind him, close enough that he can feel the edge of your coat brush his elbow when you lean in. You’re reading over his shoulder; or pretending to- but your gaze isn’t fixed on the documents. Not really. He can feel the weight of it, a slow, curious kind of attention. Just... rests. On his shoulder. The line of his jaw. The slow, precise movement of his hand as he makes a final note in the corner of the page.

Your presence registers to him like heat.

He doesn’t shift away.

He could, but he doesn’t.

“Nice handwriting,” you murmur. The thought is low, casual, like it just occurred to you.

Kim closes the folder with one hand,  slowly, with the kind of precision he applies to most things. Not dismissive. Just final, like drawing a line.

“I learned calligraphy when I was twelve,” he replies, tone dry as gravel.

You blink once. “That’s weird.”

“Yes.”

That’s when your eyes drop.

Not to the folder. to his tie.

And Kim notices.

Of course he does.

Perception (Sight): Three seconds. That’s how long their eyes linger. Too long for aesthetic critique. Too short to accuse them of anything.

Electrochemistry: They like how you look. That, or they’re trying to picture you without the coat.

Composure: Do not react.

“You always wear brown,” you say quietly.

Kim’s response is flat: “It’s burgundy.”

You chuckle once. “Sure, Lieutenant Kitsuragi.”

He turns his head sharply. Catches your gaze. Your expression is unreadable.

And then,  as casually as someone asking for a cigarette- you say, “Do you mind if I drive?”

Kim stares.

Half Light: Say yes and lose control. Say no and start a war.

Authority: Don’t let them take the wheel.

Inland Empire: Let them. Just to see what happens.

“No,” Kim says finally. “I’ll drive.”

You raise your hands in mock surrender. “As you wish.”

The stairs down from the RCM’s upper offices creak in strange places. It’s an old building, temporary headquarters, technically. Everything is temporary in Revachol.

You walk beside Kim now, not behind. He keeps his gaze forward, hands tucked in his coat pockets.

“Your precinct supervisor gave no detail on your background,” Kim says. “Is there a reason for that?”

You hum lightly. “Maybe I don’t have one.”

He glances at you.

You glance back, smile dry. “Kidding. Mostly.”

Logic: Deflection. They’re deliberately keeping their past vague.

Empathy: But not from fear. From habit. This is someone who knows how to be unreadable.

“You worked with the 41st recently, didn’t you?” you ask.

Kim doesn’t respond immediately. “Briefly.”

“What was it like?” you ask, casual. “The rumors are wild.”

“What rumors?”

“That your partner solved a murder in his underwear while high on speed and speaking to inanimate objects.”

Kim stops walking. Just for a second.

You stop too and tilt your head.

He looks at you like he’s trying to decide whether you’re mocking him. You aren’t.

“They’re not wrong,” he says finally.

You nod. “It’s impressive.”

Kim resumes walking.

Volition: You’re not laughing at him. That’s… rare.

Suggestion: They’re probing. Measuring the temperature. Seeing how honest you’ll be in return.

“So,” you say after a beat. “What’s your take on the moralintern?”

Kim exhales through his nose. “Which part?”

You shrug. “All of it.”

Kim doesn’t answer.

You wait, but he doesn’t fill the silence.

“Do you always answer questions with questions?” you ask.

Kim glances at you again. “Only when I don’t want to answer.”

There’s some stillness between you. The kind that could be awkward if either of you let it.

Instead, you nod, like that’s a satisfying response. “I’m here to learn,” you say. “Not to lead.”

“Good,” Kim says.

Then: “But you’re not here to be silent.”

You smile, wider this time. “No. Definitely not.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Outside, the rain is still falling — thinner now, more like static than drops. The garage is half-flooded — a shallow gleam of water pooling around old tire marks and oil drips. The overhead lights buzz against the dark like something wounded. You step out first, hood low, hands in your pockets, breathing in the scent of wet concrete and ozone.

Kim locks the door behind you both with a mechanical click and leads the way to the assigned vehicle: an RCM motor carriage, matte grey, the paint slightly peeling near the front bumper.

Your footsteps echo through the garage like a conversation neither of you are having.

Kim opens the driver’s side door but doesn’t get in. You stop beside him. Close, but not enough to breach professionalism. One body’s worth of space. Half a thought’s distance.

Then, you reach into your coat, pull out a bent pack of cigarettes, and tap one into your palm with a flick.

Kim watches. Neutral.

You light it with a tiny silver lighter, fast, one-handed. The flame catches. The first inhale is deep, deliberate, like drawing smoke into something hollow.

You exhale out the side of your mouth. Not away from him, just… not toward him, either.

Then, with no particular ceremony, you offer him the pack.

He doesn’t reach for it.

“Suit yourself, Lieutenant,” you say, voice soft with that same neutral inflection that always sounds like you’re hiding a joke somewhere in it.

Kim studies your face. Not your eyes this time. Your mouth. The way it presses slightly around the filter. The faint twitch at the corner. You’re watching him too, through the smoke, like it’s a part of the conversation.

Inland Empire: They’ve already decided what kind of man you are. But they’re waiting for you to surprise them.

Empathy: They don’t push. That’s the part that makes it worse.

Electrochemistry: They’re attractive. You’ve noticed. Stop pretending you haven’t.

Kim steps back and opens the trunk instead, checking the equipment. Standard issue: field file, emergency flares, one poorly folded RCM windbreaker, a flashlight, two canteens, one radio.

“You always do an inventory before departure?” you ask.

Kim doesn’t look at you. “It prevents problems.”

You take another drag. “You ever stop problems before they start?”

“Sometimes.”

“Ever stop a person from being one?”

He closes the trunk firmly.

Then, after a beat, looks at you directly.

“That’s what the cuffs are for.”

You chuckle. It’s a short, soft noise that rolls out of your chest. “And do you think I’m going to be trouble?”

“I think you already are.”

Your smile doesn’t fade.

The engine hums to life when he starts it. You flick your cigarette to the side, the ember hissing into a puddle near your boot.

He watches the red spiral out.

You slide into the passenger seat, lean back, and fold your arms.