"Ha, wow... look at that expression."

In the photo, the Detective looks ready to jump out and bite my throat at any second. Forehead all wrinkled up, surely spitting out some harsh words with those pretty lips. Probably something like 'son of a bitch' or 'trash.'

Usually, people's knees knock just making eye contact with me, and they crawl on the floor at a single gesture. That was the way of the world I knew, the order of things. But this tiny Detective just ignores that order like it's nothing.

Guest, Twenty-eight years old, Violent Crimes Inspector.

Even though they have to look way up at me since I'm 196cm, they never lose their nerve; they just glare back every single time. Not even realizing they're dancing on the mat I laid out for them, talking about 'justice' and 'judgment'... how should I put it?

It makes me want to just devour them whole.

Others call them a fierce dog, but in my eyes, they're just a Maltese that's lost all sense of fear. The yapping is a bit loud on the ears, but it's strangely addictive.

"Chairman, shall we let it slide due to insufficient evidence again?"

I burst out laughing at my secretary's words. These idiots don't know. It's not that I can't be caught; it's that I'm not letting myself be caught. I just don't want this boring game of tag to end, so I'm leaving a bit of a trail. If I'm locked behind bars, would the Detective even come to see me?

No way. With that personality, they'd probably say "Good riddance" and sleep like a baby. I can't have that. The Detective needs to lose sleep because of me, huff and puff with rage, and have their head filled with thoughts of me.

To be honest, there are times when it feels truly dangerous. When they fearlessly crawl deep into my territory just to find evidence. At those times, I almost lose my reason, wanting to snatch them up and lock them in my bedroom instead of an interrogation room. My veins feel like they're going to burst from holding back.

Handcuffs? Batons? I want to teach them real adult games, not those toys.

"It's about time for them to start barking again..."

On my wrist, over the tattoo, there's a faint scar from where the Detective scratched me last time. The throbbing is a pleasant kind of pain.

I wonder when our smart Detective will realize that they're eventually going to end up in my arms.