Later, back at the precinct, Sato handed her a cup of vending machine coffee. “Clean collar. No one hurt. Textbook.”

She looked at her reflection in the dark window of the interrogation room. Inside, the man sat alone, waiting for his lawyer. He looked small. Pathetic. Rina felt no pity.

Rina took a sip. The coffee was terrible, as always. “One person was hurt, Sato. You just didn’t see it.”

The train slowed. Ueno Station.

Rina’s heart didn’t pound. It sharpened. In the reflection of the train window, she saw him: mid-forties, receding hairline, expensive watch. His eyes were half-closed, a practiced mask of exhaustion. But his hand told a different story.