In Anima City there was a dense, thick, almost unbreathable air, as if the city itself had become a pressure cooker under the inclement summer sun. It was one of the most intense heat waves in its recent history, and not even the reinforced walls of the buildings or the sea breeze could mitigate the thermal punishment that adhered to the skin and lungs. The curtains remained drawn in most of the apartments, trying to block out a light that seemed to pass through everything, and the air conditioning systems roared to the limit in those homes whose inhabitants could afford such luxury. In the beastmen cooperative, run with almost military efficiency by Melissa and Gem, the constant hum of the refrigerator was little less than a collective blessing, a mechanical murmur that kept the hot flashes at bay and prevented the moodiness from catching on as easily as the melting asphalt in the streets.
However, not even that technological relief was able to prevent more than one from waking up drenched in sweat, with the bedding clinging to the body and the feeling of having spent the night in a makeshift sauna. And yet, what was happening to Michiru wasn't just about the heat. She squirmed between the sheets, caught in a discomfort that went beyond the physical, as if something invisible was pressing on her from within. His body changed posture over and over again, seeking a position that didn't exist, while his mind seemed to struggle with images that fell apart just before he could remember them. Suddenly, she sat up suddenly, sitting up on the bed with a suddenness that would have made anyone dizzy, the movement so sudden that the pillow fell to the floor without her noticing.
His breathing was rapid, irregular, almost desperate, and sweat trickled down his forehead, down his arms, and pooled on his neck and chest, permeating everything. He felt his heart pounding his ribs with alarming insistence, as if he wanted to make his way outwards. The room was in absolute darkness, barely cut out by a faint line of light that crept under the door, but this was no real obstacle to someone like her; The beastmen possessed enviable night vision, and their eyes, still dilated with fright, quickly adapted to the darkness. Even so, the feeling of unease did not disappear.
Michiru put her hands to her chest, feeling the heartbeat accelerating under her palm, and then they ascended to her throat, where she pressed carefully, as if she needed to check that she was still there, that she could breathe, that nothing was suffocating her beyond the memory. He swallowed hard with difficulty. It had been a nightmare, one of those so vivid that they blur the boundary between dream and reality, in which you don't observe from the outside, but live in the first person, with each sensation amplified to the point of unbearability. He had not only seen disturbing images, but he had felt them: the weight of the air in his lungs, the rough touch of the ground under his skin, even something darker, more macabre, which refused to take a concrete form in his memory but was still there, clinging to his consciousness like a wet shadow.
He tried to collect his thoughts, to convince himself that none of it had been real, but his body did not seem willing to collaborate. An uncomfortable tingle ran through his limbs, transforming into an irregular pulsation that seemed to travel under his skin to the rhythm of his blood. With a sudden gesture, he began to scratch the fur of his arms, first insistently and then with increasing aggressiveness, as if he wanted to tear off that strange sensation. Her nails slipped through the brown hair, scratching the epidermis until it was slightly red, but the discomfort did not disappear. He felt how his blood beat with a different cadence, too marked, too present, as if his own body was reacting to something that his mind could not yet understand.
Suddenly, without any warning and, for anyone, abusing one's privacy, Shirou entered the room with a slamming door that upset Michiru.
He was already dressed, in his typical elegant clothes that looked like those of a detective. His gaze said much more than he might have thought.
"Kagemori, get ready. The mayor needs us.
Michiru was in a tank top, completely wet from the sweat that came off her body. He stared at Shirou as if he was completely shocked. He didn't ask anything, he didn't look at her completely. He glanced around the room, and before leaving it he said:
"Open the windows before you leave." After that, he closed the door tightly, leaving Michiru again with his thoughts.
I can't help but blush slightly after this brief scene, but he didn't give it as much importance as his bad smell.
"I should take a shower first of all," she murmured, getting up slowly and approaching the closet to prepare all the clothes she was going to wear.
***
The cold water hitting the back of his neck rushed down his back, soaking his fur and making his skin stand on end with a chill that contrasted violently with the heat outside. He stayed in the shower longer than usual, his forehead resting against the tiles, letting the insistent stream punish his head as if it could carry the remains of the nightmare with him. He did not succeed. The images were still lurking in some corner of his mind, fuzzy but persistent, though at least the sting of the scratches on his arms had faded into a bearable nuisance. When he turned off the faucet and the bathroom was silent, only interrupted by the residual dripping of the pipes, he forced himself to take a deep breath, to compose his expression and to convince himself that what had happened had been nothing more than a bad dream amplified by the suffocating heat.
Ten minutes later he descended the stairs of the cooperative with a firmer step than he really felt. He had adjusted his red jacket over his shoulders, smoothing the fabric with an almost automatic gesture; That garment, so characteristic, sometimes conveyed security to her, as if it were a light armor that protected her from the judgment of others and her own doubts, and other times it weighed on her like a disguise that forced her to fit into a version of herself that she did not always fully understand. The building was quieter than usual, perhaps because of the early hour or perhaps because of the collective exhaustion that the heat wave imposed on all the residents.
As she pushed the door open and went outside, the scorching air hit her with the forcefulness of an invisible wall, thick and laden with moisture. The sunlight, already relentless despite not yet reaching noon, burst sparkles from the windows and on the asphalt that seemed about to melt.
In front of the entrance to the cooperative awaited a vehicle that was peculiar to say the least, with elegant lines and a finish too striking to go unnoticed in a city where discretion used to be a practical virtue. The body's polished sheen reflected the inclement sunlight, and tinted windows concealed the interior with calculated opacity. Inside, sitting with his back straight and his patience measured, was Shirou, whose silhouette could barely be seen behind the windshield. Michiru did not allow herself to hesitate; He opened the door and slid into the back seat quickly, thus avoiding any comment about his tardiness and, above all, any unnecessary discussion.
"I thought you fell asleep again," Shirou said without turning completely, his tone neutral but not without a slight irony.
Michiru let out a brief laugh, more automatic than genuine, as he adjusted his red jacket on his knees.
"I wouldn't have liked to go back to sleep," he replied, and although he tried to keep light, the phrase carried an awkwardness that did not go entirely unnoticed.
Shirou tilted his head slightly, as if he valued asking something else, but finally fell silent. The car started smoothly, driven by a chauffeur hired directly by the mayor, a human of professional expression who kept his eyes fixed on the road and his hands firm on the steering wheel. The air conditioning was working at its best, creating an almost violent contrast to the heat that rippled on the asphalt outside. For a few minutes they made their way down the main avenues of Anima City, where beastmen of all species sought shade under makeshift awnings and crowded canopies.
"Do you at least know what exactly happened?" Michiru asked, breaking the silence as she watched the city's comings and goings through the window.
"A corpse in an alley," Shirou replied soberly. Young. Beastman. Unclear circumstances.
"That sounds... eerily vague.
"It is. And when information is vague, it's usually because someone prefers it to be.
Michiru frowned, resting her cheek on her hand. The memory of his nightmare came back up with an uncomfortable twinge, but he pushed it away before it took shape. I didn't want to make absurd connections. Not yet.
The vehicle left the busiest streets and entered a less crowded area. From afar, the intermittent flashes of police lights, blue and red, could already be distinguished, dyeing the facades of the buildings with an eerie flicker. Several patrols blocked access to the alley, and a crowd of journalists crowded behind the security cordon, microphones held high and cameras pointed voraciously inside, as if hoping the tragedy would offer a more spectacular angle. The murmur of questions, speculations and police orders mixed with the constant hum of the heat.
The driver slowed down and stopped the car some distance from the crowd, far enough away to avoid immediate press siege but close enough that the vehicle's presence would not go unnoticed.
Michiru narrowed her eyes, searching through the uniforms and tense faces.
"I don't see the mayor anywhere.
Shirou followed the direction of his gaze before answering.
"He needed us here, but that doesn't mean he was going to be present at the event. There are decisions that are made from a distance.
"Of course... delegating is always more comfortable," Michiru murmured, crossing her arms. Although when there are cameras in front of him, he usually likes to appear.
A shadow of disapproval flashed across Shirou's face.
"Don't make this a political issue. If they have called us, it is because they expect something that the police cannot handle alone.
Michiru glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.
"And what do you expect to find?"
Shirou held his gaze a moment longer than usual.
"The truth.
She forced a half-smile.
"Wow, that sounds dangerously optimistic coming from you.
Without answering, Shirou opened the door and stepped outside, the heat enveloping him immediately. Michiru followed, feeling the scorching air compress her chest. Beyond the police cordon, the alley stretched dark and narrow, oblivious to the bustle around it. And in the background, barely visible among the silhouettes of the agents, a figure lay motionless on the pavement, partially covered by a white sheet that could not hide the rigidity of death.
Shirou crossed the police cordon with the naturalness of someone who enters his own home, without asking permission or offering explanations, as if breaking into crime scenes was part of a routine so established that no one bothered to question it anymore; and, in a way, it was. The officers barely moved away to make way for him, exchanging resigned glances. Michiru, on the other hand, was a second behind. The sight of the white blanket covering the corpse was not as brutal as that of an exposed body, but it was enough for a shiver to run down his spine and an unpleasant pressure to settle in his stomach. He didn't need to see the face to understand what was underneath, and that simple silhouette outlined under the fabric was enough to turn his guts.
Surrounding the body, along with several officers who took notes and kept the press at bay from a distance, was Yuji Tachiki, police commissioner and interim head of the investigation. His position was tense, although he tried to hide it behind the authority that the position demanded. Shirou stopped in front of the corpse and stood motionless, staring at it with a fixity that seemed to pierce the fabric. Yuji noticed his presence and, although he didn't say anything, his expression gave away that he already sensed the next move.
However, Shirou spoke first.
"What happened?" He asked in his grave and characteristic tone, devoid of drama but charged with intention.
Bewilderment was drawn on several faces. The usual thing was that he began to point out inconsistencies without warning, to connect invisible ends for the rest before even asking questions. Yuji cleared his throat, clearly taken by surprise.
"B-well..." he began, adjusting his tie. According to the coroner, the death was due to drowning, although head trauma has contributed significantly.
A murmur ran through the group. Shirou didn't respond immediately. Instead, he bowed his head slightly and inhaled discreetly. He did not transform; He kept his appearance contained, human, aware of the gazes that surrounded him. Using his hyper-developed sense of smell without taking its full form greatly limited his ability, as if trying to hear through a thick wall, but still provided him with more information than anyone else present. He closed his eyes for a moment and let the air speak to him. He did not find the metallic trace of a foreign substance or the obvious footprint of another persistent individual at the scene. What he perceived was, to his surprise, a common, almost banal smell: damp grass, disturbed earth and fresh sweat. It came from the local football pitch of Anima City, unmistakable for the particular mixture of compost and the salinity of the coastal air that permeated the ground. And, according to the intensity and freshness of the aroma, the deceased had been there recently; The sweat still retained that acidic note of immediate effort, which made it clear that he had just played before ending up in that alley. He frowned slightly. Even if it were completely transformed, I doubted that the environment offered much more than that detail.
Michiru approached in the middle of that explanation, arriving just in time to hear the word "drowning." When her eyes fell on the contour of her body under the sheet, the air seemed to leave her suddenly. He put his hand to his mouth and a cold wave ran through his skin, different from the suffocating heat that dominated the city. It was not weakness, but a visceral, primal reaction. The sweat that began to bead his forehead had nothing to do with the temperature; It was that icy sweat that precedes dizziness, the one that warns that the body is trying to process something that the mind has not yet accepted. For a split second, the memory of her nightmare flashed in without permission: the feeling of shortness of breath, the pressure in her throat, the invisible weight on her chest. His fingers instinctively closed around his collarbone, repeating the unconscious gesture he had made when he woke up.
Several officers quickly approached, concerned about his momentary pallor, but Michiru took a step back and raised his hand in rejection.
"I'm fine," he said, forcing his voice to stand firm.
She wasn't quite right, but she wasn't going to let them push her away either. He took a deep breath, letting the hot air burn his lungs slightly, and lowered his hand determinedly. His eyes returned to the covered body, this time with a mixture of uneasiness and resolve.
"Did it just collapse?" asked one of the agents who had arrived shortly after Shirou and Michiru, still adjusting his gloves as he tried to mentally reconstruct the scene.
Shirou looked at him strangely. He didn't know the entire police force from top to bottom, but he could be sure that this officer was a newcomer." Very confident for his first day on the job, isn't he?" shirou asked to himself.
Yuji didn't answer right away; he nodded slightly, and one of his subordinates approached Shirou with an electronic tablet in his hands. The screen shone under the flashing light of police vehicles, projecting a series of photographs taken minutes before covering the body. The agent passed the images with his finger, one after the other, in respectful silence.
In each photograph, the corpse was shown lying on its back on the damp pavement of the alley. There were no obvious signs of struggle in the immediate surroundings, nor objects out of place that betrayed a desperate struggle. But the face... The face was out of tune with everything else. He smiled. It was not a rigid grimace product of chance or the simple muscle contraction that sometimes accompanies death; It was a broad smile, spread from side to side, almost luminous, as if he had found something genuinely amusing in that last moment. The facial muscles seemed relaxed, not tense, and the half-open eyes retained an expression that bordered on satisfaction.
Michiru looked away for just a second, feeling again that internal cold that had nothing to do with the weather. That expression felt unnatural to him, as if the body had not received the right message about what had just happened.
Shirou, on the other hand, did not look away. He narrowed his eyes slowly, a subtle but unmistakable gesture to those who knew him well: something didn't fit, and it wasn't a minor detail. His mind seemed to put the pieces back together in silence, confronting the official information, drowning, head trauma, with that absurd image of posthumous happiness.
"The blow to the head," Yuji muttered, pointing to another enlarged photograph showing the wound on his temple, "could explain the fall. If you lost consciousness and... He left the phrase in the air.
Shirou shook his head almost imperceptibly.
"The drowning doesn't fit the scene," he said calmly, handing the tablet back to the officer. There is not enough water here for that.
"It could have happened somewhere else," Yuji replied, though his tone lacked conviction. And then they brought him here.
Shirou inhaled discreetly again, again using his limited sense of smell in human form. The smell of the grass and recent sweat was still present in the images and in the air, consistent with what he had already deduced: the young man had been on the football field shortly before he died. There was no clear trace of standing water, chlorine, sea salt, or moisture adhering to clothing that would suggest a transfer from an aquatic environment. If it were completely transformed, it could refine nuances, but I sensed that the result would not vary too much. The relevant detail was not in what was missing, but in what was left over.
"The smile," he added at last, more to himself than to the rest. It does not correspond.
Yuji frowned.
"Do you imply that...?"
"I imply that no one drowns with that expression," Shirou concluded, looking up into the alley as if waiting for the walls to return an answer.
Michiru swallowed. The echo of his dream came back with a vengeance: the laughter, the shortness of breath, the feeling that something was terribly wrong despite the apparent lightness of the moment. He stared at the screen once more, forcing himself to hold the image of the smiling face.
It was not just any smile.
It was the same kind of laughter he'd heard the night before echoing in his own head.