All I could manage was a hiss of pain, standing there, staring down at my palms, where the tattoo-like symbol was. The skin around it red and inflamed, but not bleeding, thankfully. My claws were gone, leaving behind the familiar sight of tan skin and human nails, albeit slightly longer than usual.

So I'm not the only one? If there's others then...this isn't schizophrenia?

"Is that...a metaphorical statement?" I managed, not tearing my gaze away from the tattoo, my hands shaking ever so slightly.

The officer gave me a flat stare, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "It is not."

"So you've dealt with similar...cases?"

"I'm not obliged to answer, Jun. As I said, you need time, and right now, the last thing you need is a criminal record." He let out a sigh, adjusting the fedora on his head, casting a shadow over his eyes.

I inhaled sharply, letting my hands drop to my side. I had a multitude of words, angry, confused, frustrated, all stringing themselves together, waiting to leave my mouth, but I held my tongue.

"You aren't. I know, but I'll be throwing this one question to the wind." I glanced at the cigar on the cobblestone, flayed, broken, before prodding it with my shoe.

"Why did this fix it? My hands. When you burned them? "

"...They're called 'blood brands', Watanabe Jun. You'd best remember that. It's a common treatment, used for soldiers that shows signs of...well, becoming bleak. There is only so much that can be excused by law, Jun, and I would prefer if you stayed clear of the full treatment." He turned his head, and coughed into his hand, a small puff of smoke exiting his mouth, like a dragon.

"Blood brands are a form of...suppression. For lack of a better term." He continued, a hint of regret to his voice. "It is a treatment used to suppress the 'bleak' traits, in a way."

I was silent, staring at the cigar. The smell was strong, stinging, and it mixed with the faint smell of ink and blood, a sickening combination that was enough to make me want to gag.

"It's not permanent is it?" I scoffed, glancing up at the man, who was looking off into the distance, his face obscured by shadow.

"The brands are, unfortunately. The effects, not so much." He let out a sigh, before turning his gaze back to me, a stern expression on his face. "Especially for a hound...with unusual traits. I'm sorry Jun, but I'm not certain what you are."

A hound...and unusual traits. Like my claws? My eyes? Or the fact that I'm not an actual bloody hound...?

"Hound...you mean, the animal. The dog. A mutt."

"No...the name of a class of Bleak, a specific species in a way..." He sighed, reaching into his jacket, and pulling out a pack of cigarettes, taking one out and lighting it, smoke billowing out of his mouth even before he took a drag. "Hounds, or okuri-inu, are...unusual, compared to other species. They are rare, and they are dangerous, for a number of reasons."

He paused, looking down at the cigarette between his fingers, before taking a long drag. "But...that's a different conversation."

I stared at him, an uneasy feeling in my gut. This all felt like an elaborate joke, a prank, except my friends weren't hiding behind these alley walls, waiting to burst out laughing at the aftermath. There was no one to get back at, even in jest.

No one to get back at without the possibility of harsh consequences.

"What kind of 'other reasons'?"

"That, is none of your concern." He stated, his voice stern, as if it were a command, an order, that he was obligated to uphold.

I let out a laugh, akin to a scoff as the corners of mouth tugged into a strained smile. "Not my concern, huh?"

"Alright. Fine. What should I concern myself with then, Officer Kato?"

He didn't reply, and the silence stretched, the atmosphere tense, like a rubber band about to snap. The cold was biting, and the smell of smoke had become almost nauseating, mixing with the lingering smell of burnt flesh, and the scent of rain that clung to me.

Officer Kato simply took another drag of the cigar, flicking the ash onto the puddle below before giving a curt bow, a silent end to the conversation. "You'll receive a message, once I secure the continuation of the investigation."

With that, he turned and walked out of the alleyway, the tails of his suit disappearing into the fog of smoke, and the grey light of morning.

****

I meandered my way through the weaving streets, labeled on sign boards of various shapes, sizes, and languages, as Kings Road, Kozui intersection, Roji alley, piss alley...

Alright, I made that last one up, although there was a street by that name in Tokyo. I didn't have the boast of visiting that particular one, but there was another one close to my old neighborhood in London.

Piss would be a great description of my current mood. As in it was piss poor.

As in I was pissed. At everything, and everyone, and I wanted to punch something, someone, or maybe just yell, and curse, and scream. Maybe throw a couple chairs, smash a few tables, and then burn some shit down.

I stopped walking for a moment, squinting my eyes at the trace of tram tracks up ahead, where the cobblestone streets gave way to the paved ones, the roads used for carriages, or motor cars.

"Alrighty, I found something at least." I breathed, a hiss of air through my teeth, out of relief, or frustration at myself.

Mum would slap me half dead if she heard my thoughts, but she can't. She never will be able to. I wonder if she'd file a missing person's report...

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"Nope. Not gonna think about it."

I shook my head, as if trying to rid myself of the thoughts, like a wet dog, a hound, or whatever else Kato was referring to. The concept of 'hounds' was a simple one, like the race selection in any old fantasy game. But this was reality, the pain and hunger I felt confirmed that. I wasn't some mutt like that William felt so inclined to bark out, to throw at my face.

And yet the word, and the title, had stuck itself to me, like glue, like a damn cigarette stuck to the sole of my shoe.

I rubbed my temple, letting out a breath, the sound mixing with the clatter of hooves, and the bell of a shopkeeper, all melding into the cacophony of the early morning, or midday.

I leaned by head back, staring up at the sky as I strolled through the crowds, following the tram tracks like a stray cat. It was cloudy, covered in a layer of grey that seemed to strangle the skyline, like the fog that filled the alleyways, and corners of the cobblestone streets. From the corners peeked a flash of colour, a turquoise sort of blue, reminiscent of the ocean. The silhouettes of birds flitted across the patched of blue and grey, their calls piercing through the clamour of the city, like a lighthouse through the fog.

I let out a hum, the corners of my mouth twitching into a smile as I shoved my hands in my pockets, the tattoo-like brand seeming to itch.

Is this a port city? I see some seagulls...

"Ak..!" A voice rang out, followed by a huffing complaint, and the thug of something hitting the ground. I jolted, snapping my head down, my eyes flicking from its absent scan of the sky, to the source of the commotion.

A boy, stood there, rubbing his backside, a pile of newspapers at his feet, scattered like a torn nest beside a toppled bicycle. He let out a hiss of exasperation, before picking himself up, shooting a glare at me. "Watch where you're walking, Mister."

"Ah...shi-- my bad." I muttered, bending down to help gather the newspapers, the headline catching my eye.

'Nikabe harbor shipyard suffers second arson incident'

"Arson...?" I echoed, glancing at the boy, a teen, with equally white hair to mine. "You've got the scoop on this right? Mind giving me a run down?"

He shot me a look, before snatching the newspaper out of my hand, shoving them into a canvas bag, secured to a bicycle that laid on its side. "Yeah yeah, sure. 5 yen."

"5...?" I raised a brow, the words not quite clicking. I frowned, rummaging through my coat pocket, before pulling out the fountain pen Kato had shoved back, along with a couple of yen, an old print that held the face of some official I had never seen.

I stared at the pen, the light reflecting off of its fine finish, before I shoved it back into my pocket.

Why would he want 5...? That's nothing. What can you buy with 5 yen?

I managed to discern the 5 yen from the 10 yen, despite my confusion on the value and exchange rates. Considering the apparent time period, 1 yen was likely worth a lot more here than it did in modern day.

I handed the boy the coins, earning a satisfied hum as he handed me one of the newspapers, with a folded crease. "Nikabe harbor suffered its second arson attack, leaving 4 dead, and 3 injured."

"No insider information? Waste of an investment I'd say. I know the newspaper is only 3 yen, heard your co-workers selling." I gave a shrug, flipping through the newspaper. It was a different addition to the one I had gotten a hold of earlier, containing more local business, crimes, and overall darker than the gossip I had seen.

"Investment...?" He scoffed, climbing on the bicycle, and hoisting the canvas bag over his shoulder, newspapers tucked inside. "Are you some detective, Mister?"

"Well, occupationally, yep. But I think I'm more of a jester." I muttered, folding the newspaper, and tucking it into my pocket.

"Detective jester huh...? Must not get much work."

"Eh. We'll see." I shrugged, before flashing him a smile, giving a mock salute. "Thanks kid."

"I'm 15. Name's Tanaka, and I'm not a kid." He grumbled, pedaling off, before shooting me a glance, flashing a smirk that could rival the Cheshire cat. "Bye, old man."

"I'm 20???" I called after him, earning a bark of laughter as he pedaled away, the newspapers clattering in the canvas sack, a sound mixing with the scrape of a tram against the tracks as it came to a stop across the street from me.

It was an iron car, painted red and black with an intricate design to match its steam powered appearance, steam pouring out from pipes that lined the tram, twisting to release the vapor to the sky, and not the face of unsuspecting passerby. It's wheels were large, and looked like something I had only seen in old mystery films, along with the typical tram roof.

"Alright...lets figure this out..." I breathed, letting out a huff of air, the white mist swirling in front of my face. "How do I get to the address on the ID?"

"Madara Consultation Office, Dreary Lane...Building 8756?"

I squinted at the address printed on the blotchy paper after pulling the ID out of my pocket. From the rain storm I, and it by extension had been exposed to, the print was smudged, making the number hard to distinguish.

"Or 8765?"

I let out a huff, ruffling my hair, the white locks falling into place as I headed towards the tram, the news paper clutched in my hand.

The tram door opened with a screech, steam billowing out, obscuring the opening as I stepped inside, following the lead of the other passengers to drop the fare fee into the slit of a metal box.

The tram was small, and there were a number of seats, with a few standing room areas, with iron bars used as support. Most seating areas were already occupied, by workers, or mothers with their kids, although the most notable were the young men in uniform, soldiers, from the look of it.

I chose a spot towards the middle, leaning against a bar as the tram screeched, steam pouring out as we lurched forward, the iron car beginning to move.

It was cramped, and the tram was far from silent, steam hissing, people chatting, a couple of kids laughing and pointing out the window, and a man coughing in the corner, an older fellow, or a drunkard.

For now, I paid it no mind, one hand clutching the support bar for dear life as I tried to read the newspaper all nonchalant-like, like those detectives in the novels. It was harder than it seemed, considering the tram seemed determined to jostle every passenger, and article like hell.

My eyes scanned the headlines, reading about the Nikabe harbor arson, and the recent political unrest in the northern regions, although it clearly avoided to notion of specifying.

It seems to be a trend to blame the bleak...Well, there's no mentions of any murder, at least. So Jun isn't public enemy number one...as far as I can tell.

I flipped to the next page, finding an advertisement, boasting a new radio set, a compact size compared to the abnormally large ones I'd seen in film. The ad was fancy, with a splash of colour that the rest of the newspaper lacked, likely hand painted, a great deal of effort to sell the 'invention of the century' as the print called it.

Radio huh...they seem to be more ahead of the times than I expected, relatively speaking. Or maybe not, I'm not a history buff.

I paused, glancing out the tram window, at the passing buildings, the names blurring by like a flip book, the cobblestone giving way to paved roads, and the shops becoming more and more spaced apart, the buildings gaining the appearance of office buildings, or apartments.

It was getting quieter, less people boarding, and the tram slowing, steam hissing, and groaning like a dying animal.

Does this bloody thing need a refuel? Really? It's only been around a hour...or two...? I really need to invest in a watch. Although...I'm not sure if they sell wristwatches. Maybe a pocket watch then.

I let out a groan, shoving the newspaper into my jacket pocket, from which it stuck out awkwardly, earning a glance from a soldier, maybe a couple years older than me.

I gave them a nod before sitting down in an empty seat, waiting for the tram to stop screeching, and to pick up speed again, hoping the route reached somewhere near a harbor, where dreary lane apparently was.

The tram let out another hiss, steam billowing out, before halting, the iron car screeching to a stop, the sound piercing, and making me jump, earning a bark of laughter from a kid, who was perched on their mother's lap.

Bloody tram. Damn rusty bucket.