Late at night at the Metropolitan Police Headquarters, the white light of fluorescent lamps poured down onto the floor of the First Investigation Division with sterile indifference. Only the second hand of the wall clock ticked away with mechanical regularity. Piles of documents on desks, mountains of cigarette butts in ashtrays, and coffee stains encrusted around keyboards told the story of this department's daily grind.

Uno sat at a window seat deep in the floor. A massive, pale purple braid hung over the back of his chair, long enough to nearly reach the floor. His frame was strangely thin for the shoulder width of his suit. With his heel-clad legs crossed, he placed a cigarette in his mouth and lit it at his desk. The purple smoke rose slowly toward the ceiling.

A phone is ringing.

Uno's gaze flickered toward it for a brief second before darting away as if he had instantly lost interest. The phone continued to ring. The third ring. The fourth. The fifth.