Detective Seguerra popped on the latex gloves and shoe covers he had stored in the trunk, relying on immersing himself in his ritual to bury the memories playing in his head. Detective Hayakawa followed suit. He brushed past the gawkers and onlookers, insisting that people step aside because the official investigation was underway.

"This area is off-limits, people. Go home!" he bellowed, flashing his badge as he marched by them and into the bank.

"Detective Seguerra," Michael exhaled with a sigh of admiration. "It's an honor, sir-"

"Outta the way, rookie," he snarled as he bumped right past him. "You really must wanna help out, I've never seen a newbie stick his nose in so much. Did you contaminate anything?" Michael shook his head emphatically. Seguerra may not have been looking for an answer. He was already off before Michael could give him any kind of report.

"Um, sir?"

"What is it?"

"What is he doing with you?"

There was a large man with Hayakawa, dragging his feet behind him with his iron chains clanking and clanging as he walked. The man's name was Fred Clark, and obviously, he was no detective. You could tell what he was from the dingy orange jumpsuit he wore and the handcuffs around his wrists. But the most distinguishable thing about him was his large, broad neck covered with a dragon tattoo that scaled his bald head like a vine.

Clark was sauntering behind them, in no hurry at all, so Hayakawa came back and prodded him in the shoulder blades.

Seguerra shot Michael a dirty look. "What's your name, rook?"

"D-Detective Michael Uzoma, sir."

"You're questioning my authority, Mr. Uzoma? My ability to do my job?"

"N-n-no, sir. I only meant that this man is a violent criminal, and I was wondering if it was safe to have him under such little restraint."

"Of course it isn't safe. Doesn't mean it isn't necessary."

"I can't say that I follow the logic, sir."

"Can't say I'm surprised."

Once they were inside, Detective Seguerra quickly scanned around the open area, stopped, and then turned back to Hayakawa, solemnly shaking his head.

The curious Hayakawa mouthed an oblivious "what?" Before scooting past Seguerra. His breath got heavy; he felt himself beginning to sweat as he tried to conceal his panic from the people just yards behind him. There was blood— a lot of it— all over the floor. A body: slouched uncomfortably with its spine jutting up toward the ceiling and a head dangling beneath it. Another body lay with back flat on the ground and a hand over the bullet wound in his chest; the head with cheek flat on the floor and a pool of blood reaching up to his chin.

"Hayakawa."

And yet another: shriveled and contorted like it had been tossed in like a garbage bag. The white of the corpse's eyes were all that was left staring into Hayakawa's. The rest of his face had sunken in and taken on a purplish hue. Most of his brow was gone, the skin of his cheeks and bottom lip clung on by threads. There was a thick coat of blood striped across the hallway floor like fresh paint that led to the bathroom, and at the end of the trail, regular customers put down on their stomachs.

"Hayakawa."

They had tried to run, and still they were shot.

Hayakawa sought to steady his balance by resting his palm against the wall. Between his fingers he could see the droplets of blood and tiny bits of skull and brain matter sprayed across the wall and window. He struggled to spill out a word through his frantic whimpers as his shoulders tremored.

"Hayakawa!" the echoing voice ringing in his ear was Seguerra, trying to shake him to life. He stumbled out of the bank, lunging for the bushes to puke in. Clark watched him huddled over; he laughed with great joy in his eyes.

"You okay there, sport? See somethin' scary?" he crowed.

"Fuck you," snarled Hayakawa, still folded over. Clark exploded with laughter.

"Pal, you might be in the wrong line of work!" he cackled. "You have any idea who we're going after? If this gets to you— might I suggest a nice, eh...paper route, maybe?"

"That's enough," Seguerra muttered from behind Clark. For some reason, Clark respected him enough to stand down when Seguerra said so. Seguerra put a hand on Hayakawa's shoulders.

"They're monsters," Hayakawa panted.

"Sit this one out if you need to, kid," Seguerra replied.

"No," he assured. "I can do this."

Hayakawa stood there for a time though, caught in a trance as his eyes remained fixed on the morbid scene.

"Hey junior," Clark finally grumbled, referring to Hayakawa. "You got kids?"

"What is it with you?" Hayakawa snapped back.

"Do you?" The young detective turned to him. His demeanor was uncharacteristically serious. He decided to humor him.

"No."

"If you did, how far do you think you would go for them? Think you would kill for 'em?"