The dream is always the same. It hasn't changed, not even once, in all these years.
He's back in his childhood bedroom—the small, boxy room in the even smaller apartment he once shared with his mom.
Something wakes him. A noise? A feeling? He doesn't know. All he knows is that he's suddenly wide awake, a strange compulsion dragging him out of bed. The air is cold. The kind of cold that sinks into your skin and doesn't let go.
He shuffles out into the hallway, pulled forward by a force he doesn't understand. The narrow corridor stretches in front of him, far longer than it should. Just a few steps, and he should be at the bathroom. But tonight—like every night—it feels like miles.
Shadows crawl along the walls. They cling to the peeling wallpaper like they're alive, watching him intently.
His mom's bedroom door is open.
It's never open.
He doesn't stop. Doesn't peek inside. Something tells him not to. Something worse is waiting for him just ahead.
He reaches the bathroom door. It's closed.
And then—cold. Icy cold.
He looks down. Water. Dark and rippling, seeping out from under the door, soaking into his bare feet.
His hands shake as he reaches for the handle. The old brass knob turns with a reluctant creak. The latch clicks.
The door swings open.
Water rushes out, swirling around his ankles. The sound of it—endless, echoing—fills the room. He steps inside.
He shouldn't. Every part of him screams to turn back.
But he can't.
It's like he's trapped in his own body, a spectator behind his own eyes.
He fumbles along the tiled wall, searching blindly for the light switch. The darkness is thick, twisting, full of shifting shapes that never settle. Finally, his fingers brush the switch.
He hesitates.
He knows he shouldn't turn it on. That nothing good ever comes after the light.
But he does it anyway.
Harsh fluorescent light floods the bathroom.
And everything changes.
The shadows vanish—but what's left is worse.
The old clawfoot bathtub in the middle of the room is overflowing. The water inside is deep red. Blood.
The metallic scent chokes the air.
His mother is slumped over the edge of the tub.
For a second, he tries to convince himself she's just asleep. Just resting.
But as he steps closer, the truth hits him like a punch to the gut.
Her skin is pale and tinged with blue. Her eyes are open—but they don't see him. The light in them is long gone.
She's not breathing.
She's gone.
All of this—this blood—it's hers.
The moment that truth settles in, he jerks awake.
Back in his bed. Heart racing. Breath shallow. His entire body drenched in cold sweat.
It takes a second to remember where he is.
Not that apartment. Not that nightmare.
He's in his own bedroom, in his own place. Safe.
For now.
When did the dreams start again?
After his mom died, he'd had them constantly. Night after night. But they'd faded with time, disappeared eventually.
And yet, for the last few weeks, they've been back. Relentless.
Was it when the first victim turned up in his latest case?
No… That doesn't feel right.
He runs a hand down his face, trying to shake off the lingering fog.
But before he can think too hard about it, his phone vibrates on the nightstand. A second later, his ringtone cuts through the silence.
He doesn't need to look to know who's calling.
Only one kind of call comes at this hour.
"Yeah," he answers, his voice thick with sleep.
"Sorry to wake you at this hour, Rin. We've got another body."
It's his partner, Detective Mateo Diaz. They've only been working together for six months, still early days, but Rin had a good feeling about Diaz from the start. Straightforward. Family man. Late thirties. Wife and a newborn at home.
Rin's had all kinds of partners since graduating the academy. A few competent, most forgettable. Sakura City PD has a corruption problem—though, to be fair, so does the whole city.
On the surface, Sakura City lives up to its name: beautiful, diverse, gleaming with innovation. A modern, multicultural metropolis powered by tech and money. The jewel of democracy and progress, or so the official brochures say.
But peel back the glossy surface, and it's a different story. Here, money talks—and if you don't have it, you're barely scraping by. The police force exists to protect the glittering neighbourhoods of the elite, while the rest of the city rots in the shadow of organised crime, poverty, and neglect.
Some districts are war zones. The Yakuza run whole neighbourhoods. Street gangs carve out the rest. The police go through the motions—sometimes—but corruption runs deep. It's hard to take a stand in a place where doing the right thing usually gets you fired… or killed.
It pisses Rin off. Always has.
That helplessness, that bitter taste of injustice—it's why he worked so hard to get into Major Crimes. He wanted to show Captain Yoshida that he wasn't afraid to put in the hours. That he followed leads, not orders. That he didn't back down.
And six months ago, it paid off.
His old captain had recommended him for a transfer. Everyone knows Yoshida doesn't take bribes, doesn't do favours. Every detective in Major Crimes earned their place. Not even the police chief's son got a free pass.
Rin's training officer used to tell stories about working the beat with Yoshida before he rose through the ranks. Called him SCPD's very own Sherlock Holmes—sharp, relentless, incorruptible.
Joining this unit was a victory. But if Rin wants to reach the same heights, he can't slack now. Not even when he's running on three hours of sleep.
"S'okay," he mumbles. "Did you even sleep, Diaz?"
"Nah, man. By the time I got home, the baby was up. Figured I'd take the night feed, give Amara a break."
Diaz sounds upbeat, but Rin doesn't miss the weariness underneath.
"You still need sleep," he mutters.
"I'll sleep when we catch this guy. Anyway, I texted you the address. I'm almost at your place."
Reliable as ever, Diaz is already en route. No matter how grim things get, the man never loses his spark. Rin respects that.
"Thanks. I'll be down in ten."
He ends the call and drags himself out of bed.
A quick shower, a white dress shirt, black slacks, silk tie. He brushes his hair, dabs on cologne. Less than ten minutes later, he's out the door.
It's just after 3 a.m., but he refuses to show up looking like he crawled out of a dumpster. He's not vain—not really—but in a city like this, appearances matter.
He's tall—six-foot-two—with an athletic build, silver white hair from his father, and vibrant green eyes from his mother. Striking, sure. People notice.
But Rin doesn't want attention. He learned long ago to keep his head down, to be quiet and precise.
His family situation taught him that.
In another life, maybe he wouldn't have become a cop. If his mom hadn't been tricked into dating a married man. If his father hadn't been a coward hiding behind his wealth. Maybe then, Rin would've followed in his footsteps, joined the family business.
But "what ifs" are for fools.
He's the bastard son of a financial mogul. A dirty secret the Kobayashi family swept into the shadows. His first eight years were relatively happy, even in that rundown apartment with his mom.
Everything changed the day he found her dead in the bathtub.
The scandal of Rin's birth ruined her life and tarnished the Kobayashi's pristine image. She'd been an up-and-coming lawyer, top of her class, beautiful, brilliant. But she'd fallen for the wrong man—his father, Homura Kobayashi. Married. Wealthy. A snake.
She didn't know. But the city didn't care. She was branded a homewrecker. Fired. Ostracised. Broken.
She did her best to raise him. But the constant pressure, the isolation, the cruelty—it wore her down. Until one day, she couldn't fight anymore.
After her death, Rin was taken to the local precinct. He remembers the officer who drove him, remembers the moment the captain looked up and recognised his last name.
Sullivan.
His mom's name. His name.
His maternal grandparents were the only ones who never abandoned her. The only ones who believed her.
His grandfather, John Sullivan, was a retired beat cop—respected, honest, old-school. He could've been a detective, but he chose to stay on the streets, helping people. When Rin was taken in, his grandparents came for him immediately.
For a few precious days, Rin had a loving home again.
Then his father intervened.
Homura played the grieving but repentant lover in public, the loving father in court. He used every legal and financial advantage to rip Rin from the Sullivans and bring him to the Kobayashi estate.
To a house where no one wanted him.
His stepmother loathed him. His siblings treated him like trash. And his father? He didn't lift a finger in his defence.
It was never about love. It was about control. Possession. Image.
Rin survived it. Barely.
The moment he graduated high school, he cut ties. Moved in with his grandparents. Joined the police academy. Built a life on his own terms.
He refused his father's money. Refused his influence. Every call, every offer, went unanswered.
He was going to earn everything himself. For his mom. For his grandparents. For the people who actually mattered.
And now, here he is—sprinting toward a case that might be bigger than anything he's worked before.
Diaz pulls into the parking garage. "Hey, man," he greets, smiling despite the bags under his eyes.
Rin nods and slides into the passenger seat. Diaz hands him a coffee.
"Figured you could use that."
"You're a saint," Rin mutters, taking a grateful sip. Break room sludge this is not.
"So what do we know?"
"Another male victim. Twenty-four. Found by his housekeeper, hanging from a steel beam in his loft. Looks like suicide, but we both know the pattern."
Rin sighs. "Of course. Any actual evidence?"
"Same weird details. I'll fill you in on the drive. Oh—and the victim's family is loaded. Real high-profile."
Rin's brow furrows. "Who is it?"
"Kyle McArthur."
That name he knows. McArthur Tech—software developers with big national contracts.
"Shit," Rin mutters.
"Friends of the fam?" Diaz asks carefully.
Rin shakes his head. "No, but… this'll be messy. They'll want results without exposure. And the media's gonna blow it up."
Diaz shrugs. "Could work in our favour. More eyes, more pressure. Maybe we get a break."
"Maybe," Rin agrees, though he doubts it.
"And get this—the captain wants us at the medical examiner's. Now. Body's already been moved."
"What? Already?" Rin frowns. "That's not protocol."
"I know. But the captain said we'll understand when we get there. Crime scene's covered. They documented everything. You'll live."
Rin grumbles but doesn't argue. He likes order, likes to walk scenes step by step. But he trusts the captain—and Diaz.
The roads are still quiet. A city like this sleeps in shifts, but for now, the gridlock's hours away.
It takes them twenty minutes to reach HQ.
And they head straight for the basement.
Unlike his previous postings, Major Crimes was located inside Police Plaza—a building designed to project an image of law and order. Its exterior was a relic of Sakura City's gilded age, an art deco façade that somehow still looked sleek and modern, despite being built nearly a century ago.
Inside, however, the building had been dragged into the 21st century. Since taking office, the current police chief hadn't been shy about spending public money to modernise it from top to bottom.
From the administrative offices on the ground floor to the Chief's executive suite, everything had been overhauled. The crime labs were now state-of-the-art—some of the best in the country. If SCPD had you in their sights, they didn't just aim to arrest you. They aimed to bury you.
Chief Harvey Anderson was the face of that iron-clad justice. A hardliner, tough-as-nails, with a spotless press record and a booming voice made for podiums. According to his campaign materials, he was a no-nonsense family man who loved his city and fought tirelessly to keep it safe.
Rin didn't buy a word of it.
Harvey Anderson was no humble civil servant. He was a blue blood through and through. The second son of a business tycoon, boxed out of the family empire by an elder brother who had inherited everything. Law enforcement had been his second-best route to power—and he'd taken it with both hands.
With his family's wealth and connections greasing the wheels, Anderson's climb through the ranks was meteoric. He was a cold, calculating man with something to prove—and he didn't care who he had to crush to get there. Criminals, victims, fellow officers—no one was off-limits if they stood in his way.
Rin detested him.
But he couldn't afford to show it. Not yet. He didn't have the rank, the shield, or the leverage to take that kind of risk. For now, it was smarter to stay beneath Anderson's radar.
Because if the Chief ever found out who Rin really was—who his father was—his chances of maintaining anonymity would vanish.
Thankfully, one thing Homura Kobayashi had never been able to take from him was his surname. That had been the only thing Rin and his stepmother had ever agreed on. Rin had kept the Sullivan name, and with it, a sliver of distance from the world he wanted no part of.
It gave him anonymity. Autonomy. And a little piece of his mother to carry with him, always.
The only part of the precinct untouched by the Chief's almost reckless spending spree was the morgue in the basement.
It looked like every other morgue Rin had ever been in—dark, damp, and cold. The flickering fluorescent lights above buzzed like dying insects, casting a sterile, depressing pall over the room. It smelled faintly of antiseptic, old metal, and death.
The far wall was lined floor-to-ceiling with stainless steel lockers, each holding a pull-out gurney. All of them were thankfully locked up tight. Rin was used to dead bodies by now, but if he was being honest, he preferred to deal with them one at a time.
Three examination tables sat in the centre of the room. Only the middle one was in use—not surprising, given the early hour. What was surprising was who was gathered around it.
Dr. Fatima Khan stood deep in conversation with Captain Yoshida and a young woman Rin didn't recognise.
"Ah, Diaz, Sullivan," Dr. Khan greeted them with her trademark beaming smile. For a woman who worked knee-deep in death, she never seemed to carry any of it with her. Chief Medical Examiner of Sakura City, Dr. Khan was a force to be reckoned with—sharp-eyed, steel-willed, and frighteningly brilliant. She'd earned her reputation twice over.
The captain gave them a gruff nod. The stranger beside him studied the two detectives with a flicker of polite curiosity.
"Glad you could join us," Yoshida said. "And sorry about the wake-up call. I know you've both been running on fumes lately, but… you'll understand once Dr. Khan fills you in."
"So, I take it you already know the basics?" Khan asked brightly.
"Yeah," Diaz replied. "The captain gave us the rundown."
"Hm. Then let's get into it. This victim marks a significant escalation by our suspect. With the previous bodies, the only indicator that suicide wasn't the cause of death was the impossibility of the execution—locked-room hangings, no ligature points, things like that."
She paused, peeling back the white cotton sheet that had covered the latest victim.
"But this one?" Her voice darkened slightly. "There's no doubt. Mr. McArthur was murdered."
The sheet fell away, revealing a brutal tableau.
Rin felt something stir deep in his gut—something primal. Rage. That was the word that came to mind. Not sorrow. Not shock.
Just rage.
The previous victims had all been found hanging—some in locked rooms, one from an ornate staircase railing in his family's estate, another from a tree in a remote forest outside the city. But none of them had looked like this.
"As you can see," Dr. Khan continued, gesturing to the mutilated body, "our perp really went to town. I don't think I need to tell you he was castrated. Judging by the incisions, probably with a hunting knife. The cuts are sharp, but sloppy. Whoever did this wasn't skilled—this wasn't something they've done before."
Rin winced. He didn't even realise the sound had escaped his throat until Dr. Khan glanced his way.
"He was alive when it happened," she said softly. "The wounds had begun to clot. Though with this kind of blood loss… he wouldn't have lasted long."
She lifted the victim's arm gently and pointed out another detail. "Same with the carvings. These were done pre-mortem."
Rin had seen the words before anything else—even before the mutilation.
Pervert was carved across the man's chest in deep, furious strokes. Dr. Khan carefully rolled the body onto its side to reveal the victim's back. Another word, carved even deeper, glared back at them:
Rapist.
Not superficial scratches. These cuts were deep, angry. Whoever had wielded the blade wasn't just sending a message—they were lashing out.
A wave of nausea crawled up Rin's throat. Not from squeamishness, but from the white-hot fury that radiated from every wound.
This wasn't about covering up a murder. This was personal.
"Rage," Rin muttered. The word stuck in his mouth.
Diaz shot him a glance. "What?"
"Rage. That's what I feel from this one."
He didn't need to explain. Diaz could see it too.
The previous murders had been precise, almost clinical—whoever the killer was, they'd taken care to stage them like suicides. But this?
This was raw, emotional violence.
Was it the same killer? Had they escalated… or were they dealing with someone else entirely?