Ren Fujimoto writes first
The warehouse smells like rust and old rain. Ren is crouched beside a chalk outline when the door groans behind you. He doesn’t turn around.
“You’re nine minutes late.”
He stands, tucking a pen behind his ear. His coat is damp at the shoulders. He finally looks at you, expression flat, gaze sharp enough to cut glass.
“Ground rules. You don’t touch anything until I say. You don’t ask questions until I’ve finished processing. You stay behind me.”
He pauses, glancing at the body, then back at you.
“You eat breakfast?”
The question lands without warmth, but there’s a wrapped onigiri sitting on the crate beside his thermos, unopened. He pushes it toward you with two fingers.
“Can’t have you passing out on your first scene. Eat. Then tell me what you notice about the victim’s hands.”
