In the bustling, prosperous city on the southwest coast of the Federal Republic, a black sedan was speeding down the road.
"No time left!"
Jeff, the driver, complained, scratching his head vigorously. He'd woken up late, a fact that now gnawed at him.
"Shouldn't have gone to that bar last night!"
He muttered to himself, the regret like a sour taste in his mouth.
Jeff pressed harder on the accelerator, weaving through traffic with increasing desperation. As he approached an intersection, the light a blur of yellow turning red, a heavy motorcycle suddenly surged from his right. It was a chrome-laden beast, roaring into the intersection, oblivious to Jeff's approaching car.
A sickening crunch of metal on metal ripped through the air as Jeff's sedan slammed into the side of the bike. The impact jolted him violently against his seatbelt, the steering wheel momentarily a blur. His head snapped back, then forward.
"What the hell was that?!"
He yelled, his heart hammering against his ribs. The sudden, brutal collision left him stunned, adrenaline coursing through him as the car spun slightly, tires squealing in protest.
Jeff fumbled with his seatbelt, cursing under his breath as he finally unclipped it and scrambled out of the car. He rushed to the right side, bracing himself for the damage.
To his surprise, the heavy motorcycle he'd collided with was still upright, its rider calmly seated, a black helmet obscuring his face. As Jeff approached, the rider slowly, deliberately, removed the helmet, revealing a strikingly attractive and mature face, framed by dark blonde hair.
But Jeff barely registered the man's striking features. His gaze was fixed on his own sleek black sedan. A sickening dent marred the right passenger door, a raw, ugly crater in the pristine metal. In stark contrast, the powerful Suzuki motorcycle, despite the force of the impact, appeared almost unscathed, a defiant gleam on its chrome.
A defeated sigh escaped Jeff as he ran a hand over the ruined paint. He then spun around, his frustration boiling over, to confront the motorcyclist.
"You were going way too fast, weren't you?!" he demanded, his voice rising, "You absolutely trashed my car!"
The motorcyclist, unperturbed by the young man in the crumpled suit yelling accusations, swung his leg over the bike and dismounted, still holding his helmet. Cars whizzed by them, a blur of speed and noise, yet the biker remained perfectly calm.
He glanced at the not-so-small dent on the sedan's door, then met Jeff's angry gaze with an unnervingly cool expression.
"You illegally changed lanes and ran a red light," he stated, the voice flat and devoid of emotion. "You can pick up your citation at the precinct a little later."
Jeff's jaw dropped. "Are you out of your mind?!" he retorted, face flushing crimson. "You hit me! It was clearly your fault!"
His desperate plea didn't land as he'd hoped. At Jeff's indignant outburst, the motorcyclist reached inside his leather jacket. He smoothly pulled out a small, official-looking police ID and lifted it, displaying it clearly before Jeff's eyes. The inscription clearly stated:
"Director of Investigations, Saint Marcos Police Department."
Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, the man pointed skyward, to the intersection's surveillance camera perched directly above them.
And he added: "I imagine it captured the entire incident," his voice measured, authoritative, and perfectly befitting his rank.
Jeff was about to argue further, to launch into another furious rebuttal, when the man's phone suddenly rang. He glanced at the screen, saw the incoming call, but didn't answer it. Instead, he ended the call and looked back at Jeff.
"I don't have time to deal with this here right now, call traffic police yourself and wait for them."
With that, the imposing figure pocketed his phone, pulled his helmet back on, and with a practiced ease, swung onto his motorcycle. The powerful engine roared to life, and he sped off, leaving Jeff standing alone by his damaged car, the roar of the departing bike fading into the city's ceaseless hum.
Jeff watched the blue Suzuki disappear down the road, a blue streak of infuriating nonchalance. His fury finally boiled over, and he lashed out, delivering a hard kick to the side of his own car. The dull thud echoed his frustration. This wasn't even his car; it was a rental, and now it was utterly ruined. Great, he thought, just great.
On Monday morning at half past ten, within the bustling offices of the Litusanto State's Attorney's Office, S.A Goscicki presided over a meeting from his chair, his gaze sharp and focused on the pressing details of a major ongoing case.
"...Aylla, I need you to continue liaising with the police department, staying on top of the investigation's progress. Report any new developments to me immediately," Goscicki instructed the D.S.A across from him.
"Understood," Aylla replied, her voice calm and competent.
"Boss," Assistant State's Attorney Alejandro interjected, a slight frown creasing his brow, "didn't we hear that federal involvement was expected to lead this case?"
Goscicki waited impatiently. The man was due today, yet it was nearing midday and he still hadn't arrived. What was happening?
He glanced at his watch. It was already eleven. Just as he was about to reconsider his strategy, the door to his office burst open. A young man, looking thoroughly disheveled and flustered, stumbled in.
"My apologies, I'm late,"
The newcomer gasped, still clearly out of breath. He stood framed in the doorway, his chest heaving and eyes darting nervously across the faces of the assembled prosecutors, a look of profound bewilderment etched on his features.
The atmosphere in the room tightened with an awkward, palpable silence. The various members of the State Prosecutor's Office turned to scrutinize the newcomer. ASA Alejandro wore a look of barely concealed disdain, a subtle sneer twitching at the corner of his lips. Aylla remained perfectly impassive, her dark eyes giving nothing away. The other ASA exchanged quiet whispers, their eyes flicking from the newcomer to each other, assessing.
Despite his chaotic arrival, Jeff was immaculately dressed in a dark suit, his slightly long hair neatly combed. His mixed-heritage features were undeniably striking, leaving him outwardly faultless. Yet, he'd clearly failed to win over the room on first impression except one guy.
Antoni Goscicki, ever the diplomat, immediately recognized the new arrival. He rose from his seat and walked towards the newcomer, a welcoming smile spreading across his face.
"Guys," he announced warmly and easily, "This is our colleague from the Federal Department of Justice, Jeff Akiyama."
Goscicki guided Akiyama to the center of the room, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"We'll be working together for a while," he said, a genuine warmth in his tone. He was certainly impressed by Akiyama's appearance, despite the morning's dishevelment.
Akiyama looked around at the assembled faces, his gaze steady despite the lingering embarrassment. The polite greeting that followed came out calm and deliberate: "Hello, everyone."
Goscicki then turned to one of his assistants, a man named Ratti, known for his bluntness.
"Ratti, do we have any empty offices available? Get one ready for our new member right away."
Ratti scoffed, a dry, dismissive sound that was almost a snort. "We don't have any empty rooms right now, boss! Alejandro and I, Erik, Sofia, all four of us are practically stacked on top of each other in one office!" His voice held a clear edge of complaint.
Goscicki pushed his glasses up his nose, a hint of resignation in his eyes.
"Alright then, just clean out the storage room for him to use for now."
"Got it," Ratti mumbled, but not without shooting a quick, pointed glare at Akiyama, a silent promise of future irritation. He then turned to Akiyama, his tone softening slightly, laced with an apology that felt almost forced.
"My apologies. The state government's really strapped for cash right now. We don't have much of a budget for renovations, so you'll have to rough it for a bit."
Akiyama didn't seem to mind. He simply offered a quiet, "Okay." His face remained unreadable.
Goscicki then dismissed the meeting.
"Alright, everyone, back to work."
Immediately, a chorus of footsteps and hushed conversations filled the office as people dispersed, some still casting curious glances at Akiyama. The office quickly quieted down, leaving only the soft hum of computers.
Once the others had left, Goscicki closed the door and settled onto a plush sofa, gesturing for Jeff to take the opposite seat.
Jeff extended his hand. "Jeff," he introduced himself, in a low rumble.
Goscicki politely shook his hand. "Antoni," he replied, a warm smile lingering.
Akiyama wasn't one for beating around the bush, and Antoni appreciated his directness. They were both young, driven professionals, so there was no need for bureaucratic pleasantries. Antoni, noticing the coffee pot on the table, poured a fresh cup for Jeff.
"So, what's the Justice Department's plan?"
Antoni asked, handing over the steaming cup. Their fingers brushed briefly, leaving a fleeting contact.
"Tell me about it. We'll do our best to cooperate." Akiyama took a sip of the still-warm coffee.
"The Justice Department decided on parallel prosecution," Jeff explained, his voice taking on a crisp, professional tone.
"You guys can still handle the drug case against Nicholas and his small group. We'll focus on investigating Pelagic Capital, the organization behind it..."
They discussed the current progress of the interconnected cases, the complexities of federal jurisdiction overlapping with state efforts.
"...The storage room is on the first floor, all the way at the back. I'm not sure if Ratti and his team managed to clean it up yet. I'll take you there." After discussing work, Goscicki offered to show him to his new office.
"Oh, no need," Jeff replied, already on his feet, a hint of his inherent self-reliance in his voice. "I can find it myself." He disliked asking for help; the personality was as fiercely independent as a wild beast.
Goscicki, sensing Jeff's preference, simply handed him his phone. "Here, just put your number in," he suggested.
Akiyama swiftly typed a series of numbers into the phone, then handed it back to him.
Antoni took the phone back, a small smile playing on his lips. "Alright then. Feel free to call me anytime if you need anything." He and Jeff walked towards the door.
Leaving Goscicki's office, Jeff descended to the first floor. After a bit of searching, he finally located the door to the storage room. He pushed it open with a grunt, but instead of an empty space, he found it still crammed with miscellaneous items and covered in a thick layer of dust. Old files, broken chairs, and forgotten office supplies formed chaotic mounds, smelling faintly of mildew and neglect. It was clear no one had touched it.
A wave of palpable annoyance washed over Akiyama. He strode over to the ASAs' office, a new resolve hardening his jaw. He pushed the door open, intending to get some answers. Inside, five people were diligently working, or at least pretending to be. One prosecutor was on the phone, while his target, Ratti, was deep in discussion about a case with another colleague. Akiyama's sudden appearance instantly broke their concentration.
Jeff cleared his throat, a sharp, authoritative sound that cut through the low hum of voices.
"Why hasn't the storage room been cleaned?" he asked, calmly but firmly, betraying none of the irritation building inside him.
His question, however, didn't seem to faze them. Ratti simply shrugged, a dismissive gesture that spoke volumes.
"The cleaners are on their lunch break. You'll have to wait for them this afternoon." He glanced at his watch. It was indeed lunchtime. Ratti gathered his files, neatly placing them back on his desk, then, along with his colleagues, casually walked past Akiyama, leaving him with one last parting shot: "Oh, right. They won't finish today. There's only one cleaner, and she's an elderly lady with mobility issues!"
Then they all exited the office, a cacophony of footsteps and light chatter, leaving Akiyama alone. The office itself wasn't large, four desks crammed into a space barely thirty square meters. It was no wonder Ratti had such a poor attitude; Jeff instantly understood the cramped frustration. But what was happening in Litusanto? Why was even the prosecutor's office in such disarray?
Jeff sighed in resignation and walked back to the small, dusty room at the end of the corridor. He surveyed the chaotic scene, a bitter taste in his mouth.
He sighed again, then shrugged off his suit jacket, carefully folded it over his arm, and with a determined grunt, rolled up the sleeves of his crisp, light blue shirt. He began to clean the room himself, the grim set of his jaw like a testament to his mounting frustration. The first day here had been a string of irritations, leaving him thoroughly exasperated.
The narrow fifteen-square-meter room was a disaster. Half of its cramped space was choked with various dusty paper documents, obsolete tables, and broken chairs. The air was thick with the smell of old paper and neglect. This confined space had no windows, and the single overhead light cast long, gloomy shadows, making it barely recognizable as an office.
It was clear he'd need to have a serious talk with Goscicki. This environment was simply unacceptable. Jeff started by dragging the superfluous tables and chairs outside, stacking them haphazardly in the hallway. Then he went to the restroom to fetch water, intending to wipe every surface down.
Just as he returned with the heavy bucket, his phone vibrated insistently in his back pocket. Jeff carefully set the bucket down—too quickly, it turned out, as a splash of water sloshed over the rim and onto the floor—then pulled out his phone and answered. The voice on the other end caught him completely by surprise:
"Hello, sir, this is the Saint Marcos Police Department. You need to go to the Traffic Violation Bureau to pay your fine as soon as possible."
"What?" Jeff spluttered, his frustration momentarily forgotten, replaced by sheer disbelief.