My name is Ichijō Mirai,
It's a fake name, but it doesn't matter, it's real when it's fake.
As an ordinary person, an ordinary Neon citizen, I have a high respect for the Neon police: when I pass by the bodies of police officers, I will firmly add thirteen shots.
This has historical roots: when I was seven years old, my parents were shot twice.
They were both police officers.
After they shot my parents, the chubby officer tried to shoot me, and I didn't think it was right for the police to shoot a kid.
So I shot him back.
He died, and I regretted it.
...This guy's blood really stinks.
He can fly three kilometers into the wind, attacking every unsuspecting passerby with such precision that it's like a poison ring. I can only say that as a Neon fatso, he knows his way around a kill zone.
It stinks. It stinks so bad, I had to run away for the night.
I regretted it again.
I knew that in the beacon of freedom, beauty and peace, young children were not allowed to roam the streets alone, or go on the Internet and make friends their own age for offline play, or else they'd be screaming 'Oh my God', but I didn't know that Neon had a thing for young children, and there were a lot of dark, dark people chasing me like crows after carrion.
They're working harder than the police.
While the police are still holding meetings at 1, 2, 3, drinking tea and saying 'this... that... in short... it's not allowed...', they're already climbing over the walls at 4, 5, 6, and finding holes in the ground.
And they've provided me with a steady and stable source of funding for guns and ammunition.
He did, for crying out loud.
After about five years of this heartwarming, but illegitimate and unhealthy relationship, the black and white crows finally stopped whoring out my labor to clean up their underprivileged waste and replaced me with a new group of people to hunt me down.
The new group was still the Black Crows, but not quite Black, and the Crow Leader had long silver hair that reflected in the sunlight and made him want to be tugged on.
He looks young enough to be an adult, 80% underage.
The silver-haired crow knew what he was doing, and the first thing he did was to blow up a couple of important buildings, making the police's pursuit of me even weaker.
He found me, and while surrounding me with a bunch of dark little crows, he calmly said that the organization was harmless, and that they had been tracking me down and investigating me only to invite me to join, and asked me if I would like to join them.
Ask.
He just asked me perfunctorily, not talking about the insurance, benefits, vacation, etc., not to mention the contract, not even the intention of hiring a professional lawyer for me.
A minor!
A minor who made a job offer to a minor!
I was deeply moved.
Nowadays, when capitalists are getting smarter, it's rare to find a cute guy who's so honest about the perks he's offering.
If I said yes, I could rip him off, pull the wool over his eyes.
So I said yes.
But with one request: let me pull his hair.
He was really trying to trick me.
I said yes so decisively, but he reluctantly agreed to it after a half day of cold silence, and he didn't even bother to let me grab the roots of my hair, but only let me tug on the ends.
It was heartbreaking.
That night, I fled with a broken heart and set up a grave for the cell phone the organization had given me.
Take the brick machine if you want, but I don't want it.
To be fair, I think I rejected the organization after much deliberation and rational choice, and finally decided that the organization is not suitable for me, so I notified my departure information.
But the silver-haired crow thought I was playing a trick on him.
Hey, I just realized that.
Ah no, start over: sad, how can you slander me like this.
Saddened by the first time I've ever been slandered like that, I didn't want to see this cold-hearted guy again, so I regretted giving up on the fast zero-dollar route to catching Crow's restocking supplies, and opted for the slow zero-dollar route instead: robbing other guys who had guns.
Robbing other guys with guns.
There are a lot of guys in Tokyo with guns and ammo, including some powerful black guys and the police, both of which could be a steady stream of supplies.
After much deliberation...
Well, after seeing a bird's nest and wanting to touch it, I met a young man near my 1,532nd house.
He had a gun.
Off-duty, he was carrying a gun, and he was walking around with it bulging in his back.
What does that mean? Seduction!
It's seducing me!
Is that what young men are tested for these days? That's right!
I can't stand young people, I can't stand a little seduction, so I went for it that night.
The young man was so fragile, he didn't even block a single blow.
More accurately, he gave up the fight.
When I climbed in through the bathroom window, simply strangled his neck, and kindly went to the mirror to show him how he was dying, he suddenly stopped struggling and allowed me to push again in a puzzled manner.
No way, sir, you're not so strong-willed, are you?
In the mirror, he looked funny, his eyes were wide open from asphyxiation, filled with disbelief and trance, and a layer of rapidly spreading crystal.
It looked like a dog.
A dog that had been beaten by its master, but the next time he called, it would run to him in small steps without hesitation, a dog that had accepted its fate of death with a lingering smile on its face.
That looks familiar.
Reminds me of me looking down at the three corpses on the ground after I killed the fat officer, I must have had a very black history look on my face at that time.
So I thought I'd let go of the young man and ask him to change his expression.
Uh...
For the record, the first time I killed a man, I didn't look at my face, but it certainly wasn't that bad, it wasn't that funny, it was just a little uneducated in expression management, a little out of sorts, and by the way, I thought the dog looked familiar.
I decided to teach him, at least make his bones a little harder, now too soft, even dare not resist, simply shocked me a hundred years.
The young man heard, really smart, immediately hardened his bones.
He hardened his bones and knelt down on one knee, his knee touching the floor with a dull crash, saying that Inuo, in order to survive, could be my dog, as long as I didn't kill him, and occasionally teased him and talked to him, he could be excited to be one of my dogs.
With that, he bent down and put his forehead against my shoe, showing his absolute submission in the most undignified way.
An ID fell out of his arms, a police ID, which showed him in a proper white shirt, just as his face was suddenly white.
I stood in awe: Oh my God, it's a police dog.
Come on, sir, you're just saying that, you're really a sir.
After that, the dog tipped me off.
He told me everything about my arrests and about the black forces in Tokyo.
I didn't really need all that information, it was so easy to guess what the police were up to, I could tell if they were trying to reach out with their left paw or their right paw just by a quiet woof from their nest.
But the dog didn't know that. The dog was obsessed.
He sent me messages, one by one, from the first trivial language of a message to three or four greetings, and then learned to read the air, almost always send only the key messages, persistent and consistent for a year or two.
Even though I only responded to three messages in total.
The last time he sent a message, he was careful to send a nonsense, asking me how I was doing.
But did not add that need to go to his customary nonsense, I happen to be in a good mood, so the pleasure to answer: [You sent the contact object has been in arrears, the back forgot to make up for their own ... ].
The police dog is silent.
The police dog had charged a huge amount of money, money that could buy a house in Tokyo.
Of course it's not unusual to buy a house in Tokyo, I've got plenty of safe houses, it's just that he's 'buying a house in Tokyo', he's actually buying it, he's paying for it with one hand and handing over the real estate license with the other hand, he's actually buying it in accordance with the law.
He's not buying a house, he's recharging his phone bill.
I didn't understand, but I was shocked and puzzled: is the police dog going to buy a kennel on the Internet and become a cyber police dog?
The twenty-first century Internet developed, in advance of the Internet to buy a house so many years, this guy is quite forward-looking vision.
The police dog does have a forward-looking vision, there's a reason why there's no need to go to him, and soon I saw him again, on TV.
He appeared as a disgrace to the police.
The news showed the police shooting him down in the street, his face not like a police dog, but like a rabid dog in a dogfight, barking something rotten inside the police force.
Too much like a mad dog, too much like a mad dog.
I watched the TV and contemplated it, and found a little mad dog in the depths of my memory who had gone mad at the death of his parents, and suddenly remembered for a moment why he looked familiar.
Then it dawned on me, "That's him."
...It was him.
In my memory, because the police found the murderer, the little mad dog finally quieted down, whimpered and rubbed against my side, gazing at me with those wet doggy eyes.
Honestly, it was kind of annoying, kind of gross, but kind of cute.
The TV station just decided that the barking was too much for their ears and cut off the live feed in a panic. The feed went back to the TV station's studio and was reconnected a few minutes later with a concerned senior police official.
The police officer is very serious about the fact that Satan's operations are always failing because of undercover agents leaking information, and he states that Satan will be captured after the police force is cleared of all the bugs in their organization.
The dogs shook their heads.
The other people watching the news were surprised, not so much that the police brass was spitting out dog talk or shaking its head like a pug, but that "Mr. Ichijō, the man who was just killed was a regular at the bar!"
"Oh, you probably haven't seen him before, he used to come in when you weren't around, and sometimes sat in the same spot you always do, but you guys never met, it's weird."
"...What's the matter with you, sir?"
I smiled at her, "I remember when you and your brother fought over the family fortune over the turnover of each other's bars?"
"Yes," The bar's temporary manager smiled brightly despite her confusion, "thanks to you, Mr. Ichijō, the turnover in recent times has been really..."
"Give the bar to your brother, for now," I said, "and get it back in three months."
"These days, no one dares to come to the bar after ten o'clock to drink."
The temporary head of the bar's laugh stopped abruptly, as if he'd been shot, still unsure, but with a touch of horror.
This kind of panic is familiar to me, as when I'm sitting comfortably on my couch at home at 7 or 8 p.m. and I'm confronted by an armed home invader.
I wasn't a home invader, not at this hour, but a criminal.
After I left the bar, I joined the Black Ops organization.
The Black Organization told me not to call them the Black Organization, which sounded like a provocation, and that their organization had a proper name, Karasuma.
Oh, okay, Karasuma.
To show my sincerity, to show my organization's prestige, I spent three days cleaning up the Tokyo police station.
The academy instructors always say this is the worst class they've ever had, and every officer in the department has heard that from their instructors and superiors.
It's a bit of a self-defeating thing to say, and not very friendly to the living.
But fortunately, there's not a living soul left in the Tokyo Police Department to worry about pride and honor.
Please say thank you.
I'm sorry, I forgot that dead people don't talk.
You're welcome.
:)