The glass doors of the Amsterdam Central Police Bureau slid open with a soft pneumatic sigh, letting in a gust of autumn air and one very nervous junior detective.

  Janssen stepped inside, adjusting his tie for the fourth time in five minutes. It still felt crooked. Everything felt crooked, his collar, his posture, his heartbeat. He smoothed his hair, inhaled sharply, and told himself he didn’t look like a scared intern about to faint.

  He hoped.

  He pushed open the door to the main hallway.

  The hallway stretched wide, filled with the low murmur of officers coming and going, phones ringing, papers rustling. Sunlight spilled in through high windows, giving the whole place a crisp, official sheen.

  Then—

  “Janssen!”

  A friendly but authoritative voice echoed down the hall.

  The young detective straightened instinctively, spine going rigid.

  The Police Chief, a broad-shouldered Dutch man in his fifties with silver hair and the kind of calm presence that made you stop fidgeting, walked toward him with a warm smile.

  “Good evening, Detective Janssen,” the Chief greeted. “First day as a full junior detective. Excited?”

  Janssen tried to respond smoothly. Instead, he squeaked.

  “…Yes, sir.”

  The Chief chuckled, clapping a hand on his shoulder as they began walking down the hallway together.

  “You remind me of myself when I started,” he said. “Except I fainted in front of my first suspect.”

  Janssen jolted.

  “You fainted?”

  “Straight to the ground,” the Chief said proudly. “Hit the floor like a dropped sack of potatoes.”

  Janssen blinked.

  Was… was that supposed to make him feel better?

  It strangely did.

  They continued walking. Officers nodded respectfully at the Chief, some casting curious glances at Janssen, new kid, young face, tie too tight, eyes too earnest.

  “So,” the Chief said, folding his hands behind his back, “I hear you almost tripped into a canal this morning?”

  Janssen went red instantly.

  “W—who told you that?”

  “A traffic officer saw it and reported to me,” the Chief said with a sigh that carried far too much amusement. “He said a ‘polite, overly apologetic young man in a suit was saved from face-planting by a tall man.’ Ring any bells?”

  Janssen groaned softly, his soul leaving his body.

  “Sir… please don’t write that in my file.”

  “No promises.”

  They reached the open-plan detective office, a cluster of desks, bulletin boards, and scattered case files. Phones rang. Coffee steamed. Someone cursed at a printer.

  Janssen swallowed and tried not to look terrified.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  The Chief paused, studying him.

  “So,” he said gently, “ready to hear about your first case?”

  Janssen straightened, the embarrassment fading into a sharper, more focused seriousness.

  “Yes, sir. I’ve been waiting for it.”

  The Chief nodded slowly, expression shifting from casual warmth to something shadowed, weighty.

  “Good,” he said. “Because it came in thirty minutes ago.”

  Janssen’s pulse jumped.

  “Is it a burglary? A missing person?”

  The Chief shook his head.

  “It’s high-priority,” he said quietly. “Potential international involvement. And it’s… sensitive.”

  Janssen’s brows knit.

  “…Sensitive how?”

  The Chief stopped walking.

  Janssen stopped too.

  The older man looked down at him—steady, serious, measuring.

  “We have a suspect,” the Chief said, voice lowering. “A man connected to several violent incidents in Japan and Europe.”

  Janssen’s breath caught.

  “This isn’t exactly the kind of case I’d assign a newcomer,” the Chief continued, “but the department needs every pair of hands on this. Even new ones. We are working with the Polish police. The head detective will be Detective Lisa Kowalska.”

  Janssen nodded slowly, heart pounding.

  “What’s his name?” he asked.

  The Chief exhaled.

  “Kazou Kuroda.”

  The Chief placed a folder into Janssen’s hands.

  “Read everything carefully,” he said. “This case could take you far. Or… it could swallow you whole.”

  Janssen held the folder against his chest, hands sweating, mind racing.

  His first case.

  And already—

  It felt like stepping into a shadow much larger than himself.

  ***

  The park in the gloaming. was quiet, except for the distant sound of children laughing, small, bright voices that carried easily over the low rustle of wind through the trees. The final shards of sunlight spilled across the grass, long shadows stretching from the swings, the slides, the rusted jungle gym.

  Kazou Kuroda sat on a bench, hands in his coat pockets, collar upturned against the breeze. Beside him, Zawisza leaned back with one leg crossed over the other, watching the kids play with a kind of absent, faraway calm.

  Neither of them spoke for a while. It wasn’t uncomfortable. They were both used to silence.

  A little boy ran past, arms flailing like airplane wings, shouting something unintelligible to the sky. His friend chased him, laughing hard enough to fall. Their joy was infectious—pure in a way that felt almost surreal.

  Kazou’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.

  Zawisza caught it.

  “Hey,” he said, nudging Kazou with his shoulder. “Look at you.”

  Kazou shook his head, a little embarrassed.

  “What?”

  “You almost smiled just now.”

  “I did not.”

  “You did,” Zawisza said, grinning. “Tiny one. Barely there. A ghost of a smile. But still, progress.”

  Kazou exhaled through his nose.

  “Maybe I just like quiet places.”

  Zawisza turned his gaze back to the park.

  “Yeah. Quiet is nice.”

  The breeze picked up again, ruffling the trees, lifting the edges of Kazou’s coat.

  Then, softly, Zawisza asked,

  “You ever think about all the looks a person can make? Rage. Grief. Contempt. Love. Fear.”

  Kazou tilted his head slightly.

  “Sometimes.”

  Zawisza nodded, still staring out across the grass.

  “What do you think is the hardest look to pull off?”

  Kazou frowned, thinking. Then shook his head.

  “I don’t know.”

  Zawisza waited a beat. Then looked over at him with a small, crooked grin, the kind that didn’t hide anything.

  “How to smile.”

  Kazou turned to him, surprised.

  Zawisza chuckled.

  “Seriously. Have you ever noticed how easy it is to fake anger? Or sadness? But a real smile?” He tapped his own temple. “That’s hard. That takes something honest.”

  Kazou didn’t answer right away. His eyes lingered on the children tumbling in the grass, shouting nonsense at the wind.

  Then, almost without realizing, he smiled.

  Not wide. Not bright. But real.

  Zawisza didn’t say anything more. He just leaned back on the bench and closed his eyes, face to the sun like it was enough to feel warmth.

  And for a little while, neither of them said a word.

  They just sat there—two quiet men, watching life go on.