𝙵𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝙲𝚊𝚜𝚎 | 𝙱𝚂𝙳 𝙵𝚊𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚌

Three

"Fifteen minutes until necessary clock-in." The voice is automated, mechanical, devoid of emotion. It was 8:45.

Mizuki swears under her breath, fumbling her phone.

There were only so many occasions she was allowed being late to the agency; however, today wasn't that day. She hurriedly gathers her things, thrusting the device into her pocket — hastily shoveling in a bite of cheesecake before tossing it into the nearby trashcan.

What a waste.

Mizuki storms downstairs, nursing at her distasteful latte as she goes. She bumps into someone, a stranger, murmuring a hassled apology before propelling open the exit door.

"Thank you for your patronage!"

She doesn't bother returning the goodbye she receives, too immersed in the tap of her cane, the ticking of the clock.

The door slams behind her.

            Sound washes over her in waves: the sturdy feet of pedestrians striding over cement, engines revving as stoplights flit green, the chunk of a bicycle chain as it switches gears. The steady drip of leftover rain, cast throughout the city the previous night. 

            Mizuki ignores it all. She maneuvers through the morning crowd, tapping the sidewalk, savoring hasty sips of coffee. Taking a taxi may become necessary. On another hand, there were only a few blocks between her and the agency.

            "A few blocks of crosswalks, crowds, and crap," she mutters, cane knocking into what seemed to be the ankle of a pedestrian. Mizuki doesn't trouble herself with apologizing, and the person doesn't ask for one. It is strangely silent among the sounds of dawn.

For all she knew, she'd struck a telephone pole.

Not that she cared. She had to go to the agency, see Ranpo (her least favorite part), and enlighten him on everything. Explain, exasperatedly, her hastily summoned plan, fateful eyesight, and how incredibly sorry she was for being a cursed pain in the ass.

After she clarified the situation, there would be a chance, that just maybe, the agency could save him. She just needed time. Mizuki grimaces. Time, unfortunately, wasn't on her side. Nevertheless, she couldn't let go of hope. Not this time.

Her phone vibrates within her pocket; however, Mizuki already knows what it'll proclaim.

            Ten minutes remain.

Mizuki's pace quickens. She bumps shoulders and limbs with the people around her, fighting a seemingly unchangeable flow. Mutters and sounds cluster the area, murmured curses, telephone conversations, and incomprehensible, but human, noises.

Some curse her hurriedness, while others politely ignore Mizuki's change in pace. She was used to being pitied, ignored, cursed, simply because she tapped a cane and wore ebony glasses.

She crosses the street, crisp sidewalks changing to tire-worn pavement underneath her shoes. Two blocks remain. The crowd thins as people stroll their separate ways, from office buildings to adjacent streets.

Then, as sidewalks return under her soles, the crowd thickens once more. The process repeats at the next street, and again in front of the agency. However, she's among those who exit the crowd, stepping into the café nestled underneath her workplace.

It almost felt rude to carry in foreign coffee.

Mizuki crosses the entryway and makes a beeline for the elevator, murmuring a hurried greeting to the employees. She notices the familiar buzz of activity from the line of seating to her left, presumably a casual meeting between people outside her agency. There was always at least one pair of them each morning.

The elevator dings in front of her and she automatically steps aside, nodding in the direction of footfalls. They're sharp notes, clacking against the miniscule region of tile before being muffled underneath woolen carpets. Mizuki assumed they, she, was wearing heels.

Generally, people who exited the elevator were from the Armed Detective Agency; however, the woman didn't greet her. Mizuki didn't recognize her footfalls, either.

Strange.

The thought exits her mind as soon as it came. She enters the elevator chamber, pressing two familiar buttons, noting the familiar ding, the familiar whirr as the door slides close. She follows routine, setting her cane aside against the wall.

The familiarity isn't reassuring. The elevator music is quieter than usual, a slow song that swirls around the room. It makes her heart flutter, strangely racing against a sluggish tempo.

Mizuki checks her phone again, the voiceover humbly verbalizing the time. 8:57:46. 47. 48. She powers it down, finally recognizing the slurred elevator tune that swayed from speaker to speaker. It almost manages to sooth her apprehension.

Almost.

            The elevator dings gently over the music, an indication that Mizuki's reached her floor. Her hands tremble, mug in one hand, phone in the other. Her eyes flutter close as she inhales, attempting to calm her racing heart.

As Mizuki returns her phone into her pocket, she wonders if Ranpo was even around. Generally, his schedule was packed, running from case to case, but he always did his best to wait for her. Maybe, just maybe, he didn't stick around today. It was a discouraging thought. Mizuki blinks harshly, wiping at her eyes with a sleeve.

I can do this, even if he's not here. She reassures herself, taking a sip of her bitter, distasteful coffee. Mizuki grimaces at the flavor as the door opens, creakily sliding, revealing the entryway to the office.

            Her gaze focuses. She blinks once. Twice.

The mug slips from her hands, shattering against the floor. She doesn't notice the liquid, unfamiliar, lukewarm, that splashes against her shoes.

            There were people.