Tokyo: Officer Rabbit and Her Evil Partner

Chapter 58

Chapter 58Toshima Ward's Sugamo is like some nocturnal beast—dormant among the concrete by day, but come nightfall it starts to boil, sending out gaudy neon tentacles in every direction.

One by one the vertical shop signs flicker on. Fushimi Shika walks with a map in one hand, making notes as he goes. Storefront shutters roll up, and the overhead arch flashes SUGAMO JIZO-DORI SHOPPING STREET. A loose connection makes the characters for "Jizo" strobe blood-red. Googlᴇ search novel✶fire.net

The human tide pours in from the west—salarymen clocking off, bikers revving their bikes, yakuza keeping watch. The crush leaves Tamako wide-eyed and dizzy.

Only after checking the map does Fushimi realise Sugamo is split in two. Near Ikebukuro Station lies West Sugamo: clean, bright, two primary schools, a historic landmark, the gleaming Sunshine City mall, and the headquarters of half the country's corporations—prime real-estate for the city's elite.

Where they are now is East Sugamo. The map never actually prints "East Sugamo"; it just labels the west side and leaves the rest blank. Locals call it East Sugamo anyway—a polite synonym for "the slums."

"Ghost in the Shell will probably hit cinemas in a few years," Fushimi muses. Now he understands why nineties Japan became the birthplace of cyber-punk. Even after the bubble burst, the real power players just scooped up more capital. Give it another few decades and even East Sugamo will be razed for redevelopment; the salarymen will either commute in from Adachi Ward or go full feral under the bridges.

Tamako tags along like a country cousin at her first fair, head swivelling at every neon glare. A drunk staggers past, yelling "Mappo, get lost!" She tugs Fushimi's sleeve. "They don't seem happy to see us."

"You've got it all wrong," Fushimi says smoothly. " 'Mappo' is a local spirit. Tradition says locals shout 'Mappo, get lost!' whenever outsiders show up. The nastier they sound, the better luck they wish you."

"Huh... really?"

Tamako remembers Grandma doing something similar—only Grandma threw salt and muttered charms.

The arcade is short: cheap izakaya on one side, cheaper hostess bars on the other, a shrine to food, drink, and desire. End to end takes twenty minutes, and the streets feel safe enough; nobody's throwing punches—yet.

Fushimi keeps walking. According to the map, the real work starts in the alleys behind the shops.

Next up: a sweep of the apartment blocks—ninety percent of the patrol.

Eleven aging walk-ups line the street, their post-war ownership records hopelessly tangled. Some units stand empty, no rent ever collected, perfect hideouts for the undocumented and the dodgy. Natural havens for every kind of grime.

The alley is dark. Fushimi squints: at the far end a punk in a studded jacket is spray-painting a wall. Spotting uniforms, the kid yanks up his mask and snarls, "Dead mappo, what're you doing here? Scram!"

Tamako straightens, earnest. "Thank you very much! I'll do my best!"

"Wha—mappo should clear out, this place isn't for—"

"Yosh! Thank you for the encouragement! I'll patrol hard and keep Sugamo safe!"

"Uh, I'm literally tagging this wall—"

"Sorry to interrupt your art!" She pulls Fushimi's sleeve. "Come on, let's not bother the artist."

The punk blinks. He'd cursed her out and she'd thanked him—called him an artist, even. Fresh meat, cute and polite; maybe he could mess with her...

Then the other officer's right hand settles on his holster. The look he gives could freeze sake—yakuza-boss energy about to go lethal. Street instincts kick in; the kid shuts up and returns to his "masterpiece."

Tamako sneaks a glance as they pass: a factory belching black smoke, tucked inside a mountain shaped like spread legs. Her cheeks burn and she quickly looks away.

Two domed workshops and a tall chimney—clearly.

The apartment entrance is so low Fushimi has to duck. Inside, the hallway widens a fraction—still no motion sensor lights, just pitch black.

Tamako hates the dark. She grabs Fushimi's jacket with one hand, flicks on her torch with the other. A beam slices through the gloom.

"Creepy," she whispers, panning across peeling wallpaper and dense cobwebs.

Fushimi figures the princess has never seen real hardship. Without the academy he'd be another sewer rat down here—crumbling walls, sure, but at least there's no waist-high garbage.

They climb the stairs. Each building is a hollow square; every floor means a full lap to log it "patrolled."

Japanese beat work in a nutshell. Besides the loops, officers are supposed to knock on doors, chat up residents, map demographics, gather complaints. By the book, anyway.

By Fushimi's book, not happening. He stands at the stairwell, sweeps his torch once, and calls it a floor.

Tamako is having none of it. She insists on door-to-door introductions and wants to trace the gunshot they heard that afternoon.

Fushimi refuses flat out. At her pace they'd be working twelve-hour shifts—can't let that hustle culture take root.

They're still arguing when a thin, eerie voice drifts down the corridor:

"Is this a ghost, a spirit, or a demon? One twang of the catalpa bow and all shall be revealed..."

Fushimi feels nothing; Tamako's scalp prickles. She recognises the line from the Noh play Aoi-no-ue. Hearing it in a dim apartment at night is like catching a woman singing Beijing opera in a crumbling Chinese tenement.

She swings the torch. At the far end a door creaks open. The chant grows louder, shamisen strings twanging like whispers from the underworld.

"Pure the heavens... pure the earth... pure within and without... the six roots pure..."