duty.

Chirp! Chrip!

The sound of birds fills the air—as the sun rises from the eastern horizon, casting a warm golden light that spills into my—or William's home, signaling the start of a new day. As I open my eyes after a comfortable night's sleep, I find myself momentarily blinded by the intense glow filtering through the window.

This isn't a new sensation, however. I sit up on the soft, well-worn mattress, stretching my arms above my head while my joints crackle softly. With a deep yawn, I shake off the remnants of sleep and make my way to the bathroom.

Before me stand two metal buckets—one empty, the other filled with fresh water—next to a simple squatting toilet. A bronze faucet, its surface tarnished yet sturdy, is placed onto the wall. as I approach it, I reach for the small box nearby to grab my toothpaste.

Though it's called toothpaste, it's actually powdered soap, since this world has yet to invent the conventional toothpaste I knew back on Earth. The texture is gritty, and as I sprinkle some onto my toothbrush, I can't help but feel a twinge of nostalgia.

Turning the handle on the faucet, I brush my fingers across the cool bronze, feeling the smooth and rough spots. Water begins to flow steadily into one of the metal buckets, creating a soothing sound that fills the otherwise quiet room. I stand there, toothbrush in hand, watching the bucket fill to the brim while I scrub my teeth, the bubbles forming a white froth as I brush vigorously.

Once I finish brushing, I lean over the bucket and spit the soapy residue into the small drain hole beside the faucet. Bending down, I push the bucket aside, cupping my hands to gargle the fresh water, repeating this ritual about five or six times until I feel refreshed. Straightening up, I turn the faucet's handle, stopping the flow of water and leaving behind only the gentle sound of drops dripping from the tap.

I exit the bathroom, closing the door behind me with a soft click. Today, I'm somewhat resigned to the fact that I have to work as a police officer in this unfamiliar world—a job William just had to get!

it's embarrassing to admit that I only discovered William had a bathroom two days ago. For the days before that, I had endured without proper hygiene—quite disgusting, I know. My meals have mostly consisted of cold canned foods or whatever I could buy from the local stores, using the stash of money William has. Though.. the amount is starting to shrink.

I'm sure William owns a stove.. but where.. exactly? A thought that crosses my mind as I survey the small room that appears big because of its furnitures.

Glancing at the analog clock hanging on the wall above the closet, I see it reads exactly 8:23. Time is slipping away quickly, and I need to prepare myself for the day ahead.

The two police officers I met yesterday—the one that sported a neatly trimmed goatee and the other with long, dark hair who exuded an air of arrogance—had mentioned I need to be at work by nine. They had provided me with the address later, which I must not forget.

For now, I decide not to bother myself with cooking. I'll try it out.. after I return home.

I walk over to the closet and retrieve my usual attire: a long trench coat, a crisp white shirt neatly tucked in with a purple tie descending to my chest, and brownish-black trousers with the hem carefully folded up to reveal the polished tips of my shoes. My fingers instinctively brush against the mole on my—or William's face, a trait I can't help but check for reassurance. It's still there, though.

Approaching the wooden desk, I pull open the first drawer,I extract exactly eight clean currency bills, their texture a mix of fiber and fabric. Alongside them, I find the crumpled piece of paper with the address of the police station scrawled in vivid scarlet-red ink, the kind that seems almost to pulse with urgency under the dim light. There's a peculiar cultural quirk here: locals steer clear of black ink, believing it brings misfortune, so they go to great lengths to create red dyes from the vibrant pigments found in nature. I glance at the Rotary Landline Phone one last time, before leaving the house. I lock the wooden door behind me, before shoving the metal key into the pocket of my trousers.

The address rattles in my mind: 1034 Solenmore Street. I ponder. How will i navigate..? there's no Google Map in this world... I am dozing off. I shake my head and blink a few times, returning back to reality. Vehicles bustle past on the street outside, their engines humming with life. I lift my hand, signaling for a ride, and the driver notices me, halting just in front of where I stand.

"Where d'ya wanna go, kid?" he asks, the word "kid" hitting me like a stray bullet—William is hardly a child, nearing his thirties now!

I hand him the crumpled paper, and he pulls a pair of wire-rimmed glasses from his shirt pocket. He adjusts them on the bridge of his nose and scrutinizes the text with keen, focused eyes.

"1034 Solenmore Street... that's just around the corner," he says, his voice smooth yet gruff, a mix that leaves me uncertain about his tone. "Sure, I'll take ya... but it'll cost ya 2 Valkas."

The currency in this realm is called Valka, and from my observations, one Valka is worth just over 600 Japanese yen. I arrived at this conversion by casually noting the prices of various items: for instance, a loaf of bread here sells for 1 Valka, and back in Japan, a similar loaf costs around 680 yen. Interestingly, this currency system lacks coins altogether, relying solely on bills that felt hefty in my hand.

I slide into the vehicle, the soft leather seat cradling me like a warm embrace, and close the door with a satisfying click. The driver glances back to confirm I'm settled before he flicks a switch, and the engine roars to life in a low growl.

The vehicles here differ greatly from those on Earth. They are much shorter, compact designs emphasizing function over form, and steering doesn't involve a traditional wheel. Instead, there's a Rod like object, and the motion isn't a simple turn; you spin it around like a crank—in a circular motion. I find myself questioning why they didn't opt for a round wheel—seems simpler, doesn't it?

The driver expertly maneuvers through the bustling streets, weaving around other vehicles with practiced ease, and eventually, he announces, "Get off, kid." His tone is a little hard to interpret—was that rudeness, or perhaps a playful jab?

I exit the vehicle, handing him three Valka bills—an extra bill as a gesture of goodwill. He inspects the currency, feeling its texture, his expression shifting to one of satisfaction. He grabs the rod-like object and spins it back, and the vehicle rolls away, gradually morphing into a silhouette against the backdrop of the street.

A moment passes, and I feel my smile fade, replaced by a gnawing uncertainty about what awaits me at the police station. Turning back, I take in the imposing structure before me, its façade marked with a large sign that reads "REGIONAL EBILI POLICE DEPARTMENT." Just below, in a neat, smaller font, the number "1034" signifies the building number that I'm about to enter, each character etched firmly into the bone of this quarrelsome world.

I take a deep breath, feeling the cool metal of the bronze door handle, meticulously painted to resemble gold. With a gentle tug, I pull it open, the door creaking softly as it swings aside.

Inside, I spot a man behind a sturdy wooden counter, the surface littered with papers and an old rotary landline phone — a stark contrast to the high-quality one William bought. This one looked battered and utilitarian, but at least it still functioned.

The man is engaged in a phone conversation, his voice low and muffled, but I can sense a hint of impatience in his tone. Right beside the counter, a door looms with a sign that reads "WORKERS ONLY," its stern lettering suggesting an air of exclusivity.

As I approach, the man's gaze finally shifts to me, simmering with curiosity. He hangs up the call with a deliberate slowness, his attention now focused on my presence. I stand there awkwardly, just in front of the counter, aware of his scrutinizing gaze.

"William, huh? What took you so long? You haven't reported for duty in days," he says, eyes scanning my body for any signs of change, as if he could decipher the truth from my posture.

I nod, feeling a little embarrassed. After all, I had no idea William had a job.

"Indeed… I just had a terrible headache, that is all," I reply, recycling the white lie from yesterday, hoping he'll accept it without question.

"It's alright, the boss wouldn't mind…" the man assures me, waving a dismissive hand as if my absence is a trivial matter.

His uniform is adorned with three badges: one made of bronze, another of copper, and a silver one gleaming subtly in the light. Just below them, a name tag proudly displays his name in bold red ink: "Soleil Breaux." The name carries a hint of French heritage, but I can't help but question the existence of a place like France in this peculiar world.

I glance around the room, feeling a rush of nerves. Uncertainty settles in my stomach as I search for direction. Soleil seems to sense my unease. He stands, straightening his posture.

"Follow me," he commands, leading me towards the "WORKERS ONLY" room.

As I step inside, a dim light floods my vision, temporarily blinding me. I rub my eyes vigorously, squinting as I take in my surroundings.

There they are! The man with the long, dark hair and the one with the neatly groomed goatee. They are accompanied by several unfamiliar faces, each radiating a unique aura.

Before me, the room is vast, its walls adorned with an array of firearms: shimmering shotguns, sleek pistols, imposing rifles, and some contraptions I can't even name.

"You finally arrived, Mr. Lias," the dark-haired man greets, his tone dripping with that same hint of arrogance. He brushes his lengthy hair back, the casual gesture emphasizing his confidence.

The goateed man steps forward, exuding a gentlemanly charm. "That headache must have been truly painful for you to miss a whole week of work," he quips, the sarcasm clear in his voice.

I glance at the name tags beneath their badges: the dark-haired man is Roy Nach, while the goateed one is Ina Fayer. Their names feel foreign, even in this parallel world.

Confusion overwhelms me. What exactly do the police do in this place? Do they respond to emergencies like on Earth, or is their purpose entirely different?

Suddenly, the door swings open with a loud bang. Soleil enters, urgency etched on his face. "We just received a call! Everyone, get ready!"

Panic surges through me as I watch Roy and Fayer quickly grab shotguns and cartridges from the racks. I mimic their actions, though a wave of apprehension washes over me as I clutch the shotgun — its weight foreign and intimidating in my hands.

I follow the trio, anxiety bubbling inside me about what lies ahead. Roy Nach, Ina Fayer, and Soleil Breaux hop into a vehicle — one reminiscent of the ones I've seen before but with a rugged, utilitarian design. I climb in after them, my trench coat, white shirt, and brownish-black trousers feeling out of place amidst their polished blackish-green uniforms, nostalgically cluttered with badges and accolades likely earned through their service, and the Gold-coloured buttons placed on the right side of their chests, holding the fabric of the uniform.

William, it seems, isn't a true professional in this field of law enforcement; after all, he's a spy. He wouldn't dare reveal his capabilities, lest he draw unwanted attention. But for me, this situation feels overwhelmingly awkward.

The vehicle roars to life, its tires creating a repetitive friction sound as we speed into the unknown. Soleil, seated at the wheel, turn the rod-like object—the "steering wheel"—in a rhythmic motion, steering us through the twist and turns of the road.

Nervously, I reach for the window crank just below me. Slowly, the window rolls down, and I stick my head out, glancing back at the other vehicles trailing behind us. The unfamiliar faces of fellow officers race by, their expressions a mix of determination and urgency. Is this emergency truly that significant?

Next to me, Roy Nach places a hand firmly on my shoulder, shaking his head slowly—a clear signal to close the window. I nod, understanding the unspoken command, and roll the window back up, sealing myself in.

My hands fidget nervously with the hem of my sleeves, my gestures brimming with uncertainty—a stark contrast to Roy, who is seated next to me. He sits relaxed with his legs crossed, resting his jaw on his fist, a bright yet arrogant smile plastered across his face. His confidence radiates, creating a magnetic presence.

Eventually, we arrive at a run-down building that blended seamlessly into the landscape of this Parrarel world. It was constructed from a mixture of wood bricks, which gradually decayed, giving it an eerie, "haunted house" aesthetic, as if it has stories to tell beneath its peeling non-artificial low-contrast paint and sagging roof.

But what are the police forces doing here? The question naggs at me; after all, their role in this chaotic world remains an enigma. It isn't embarrassing to wonder about it—I feel a simmering curiosity stir within me.

I swing open the Vehicle door, stepping out into the thick, musty air that clung to my skin, followed closely by Roy Nach, who flicks his hair back as if to shake off any remaining doubt. Behind him, Ina Fayer and Soleil Breaux emerges in quick succession, their expressions a mixture of determination and apprehension.

A total of eight vehicles around us halts one by one. I plant my feet firmly behind Roy, while Soleil takes the lead, standing tall at the front. He is undoubtedly a high-ranking member, regarding his badges.

We begin our slow approach to the structure, our breaths shallow, each one punctuated by the sound of cartridges snapping into our shotguns. As the tension thickened around us, I can sense the weight of what lay ahead, every heartbeat echoing in the silence. A sudden surge of energy catching me off-guard.