#ive had to rewrite this three times 😔

[tokyoghoose]

forgive these bastards ➤ prologue

summary ➣ when detective akaashi comes across a rather complicated case, he is faced with many challenges along the way. In his attempt to solve the murder of a young woman and a string crimes, he must work beside the reader to learn more about the victim. ( detective au )

theme song ➢ im not a good person - pat the bunny, sleep is for the weak - the dreadnoughts, the quittin kind - eleisha eagle, how do you sleep - himalayas, blow my brains out - tikkle me, when i was done dying - dan deacon, stalkers tango - autoheart, youre nobody until somebody wants you dead - saint motel, kitchen fork - john conte, distant past - everything everything, cough cough - everything everything

warnings ➢ mentions of murder and death, description of blood and gore.

announcements!

here it is! the prologue of ftb! :) I'm super excited to start this series! this is a little shorter than i wanted it to be, but I'm still pretty happy with it.

feedback is appreciated and welcome! requests are open!

—————

"Keiji, it's getting dark. Why not come inside for the night?"

The sun was just over the horizon, the moon coming up to replace it. It's bright—the orange and pink colors. The image is burned into young Akaashi's memory when he looks over. He waves at his mother with a nod before passing the volleyball back to his friends and running over. The scrapes on his palm sting and the bruises on his legs hurt a little, but he doesn't mind the sensation. It feels like freedom—even if he doesn't really understand the full meaning of the moon. This is what he imagines it feels like.

Games to be played with friends and laughter. If this is what life holds then he is more than willing to live it. His naivety holds firm when he grabs his mother hand at the door, being pulled into a brisk hug. She laughs and pats his hair and he thinks it's the kindest gesture in the world. He snuggles closer before pulling away to see dinner on the table. His mother locks up, looking quietly into the city with concerned eyes. She wasn't going to let anyone hurt him, the smile that she cherishes wasn't going to fade as long as she could help it. She turns with a smile, passing him a plastic fork before listening to the adventures Akaashi had gone on that day.

Childhood seems so far now.

———

If you were to tell Akaashi's five year old self that seventeen years later everything he thought about freedom and life was a lie and he would become a detective who took away other's freedom, he'd probably laugh and then cry and cry some more. If you were to tell him that his mother would die so he'd have to be raised by his aunt at the age of thirteen, he'd probably punch you in face in attempt to break your nose—and if you then told him that's the reason he became a detective and went through five grueling years of internships and having to learn how to stomach crime scenes in the first place, he'd make sure to add a swift kick to the shin with it. Even at twenty, if someone—anyone—would have told him that he'd never get sleep again because of the things he'd see day to day, eventually becoming desensitized, but still having nightmares that kept him up all hours of the night—well, he'd probably just brush it off because he thought he'd be different.

News flash: he's not different.

In attempt to rub sleep from his eyes (ironic considering he got maybe an hour), Akaashi yawns, triggering a chain reaction from his assistant. The city is bustling with talk of the latest murder—a social media personality. Twitter is blowing up with the hashtags 'rip' and 'always & forever.' Yet, hardly any of the people tweeting and saying things like: 'always in our hearts, never forget,' didn't know her personally. They knew the internet version of her, the side she showed to the world and not the side she was personally. To the world she is known as an idol—a hero to some.

But everyone has their dark secrets.

The car stops along the house's pavement, the driveway a large circle with a statue in the middle. His first thought is someone was in it for the money, maybe a robbery gone wrong. Stepping out the car, he snaps on some gloves and looks around before being handle the case file from an officer on duty, being caught up to speed.

The house is pristine except for the blood that has dried up on the tiled floor. It's a stark contrast from all the white and gold. Minimalist; he notes. Akaashi skims the file before looking at the body and watching it get zipped up into a black bag before being carried away. All that's left is half an outline and some splatter across the floor.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Just what he needs—more nightmare fuel. But a job is a job no matter how tired he is.

"Alright, let's start at the entrances. Check the windows and doors."

———

Red. Why is there so much red? Whose breathing is that? And why is it so loud?

Your eyes finally focus on the hand outstretched in front of you, widening at the sight. A silent scream escapes past your lips and shakes your body, making you stumble backwards. The shaking hand blocks the view, forcing your eyes away from the scene. The thumping of your heart and blood in your eyes is so deafening that it makes you lightheaded. You felt sick. You were going to vomit, pushing down a gag and covering your mouth.

You look at your hands, willing them to stop shaking in tight fists before looking at the body below you. Blonde hair dyed red from the puddle. A sob wracks through you.

Heaving a heavy breath you weren't aware you were holding and gripping your phone tightly, you dial the police. Your voice shakes when speaking:

"H-help, please. She's dead! "

———

Akaashi rubs at his temple in attempt to soothe an oncoming headache, the dim yellow light at his desk straining his eyes. He looks at the file, nibbling on his lip in irritation. The pictures of the scene and the overall file and personal file just swarms his head with mixed up information and he honestly isn't sure where to start. With a soft sigh he leans back into his seat, crossing his arms over his chest.

The case is gruesome, a red massacre. Victim was stabbed six times in the abdominal, close to gutted even, but the blunt truama to her head shows she was dead before hitting floor. The door hadn't been broken in, the wood and hinges still in place like they hadn't been shaken—perhaps she let them in. The window had been forced open from the inside, the paint that previously sealed it being chipped aggressively against the pane. It could've been some loopy stalker, but the more he looks at the case it's less likely.

His head hurts and he can't focus and it's getting late.

He begins to nipple of his thumb nail, bringing it up to his lips in deep thought. The red strings in his brain trying to connect the dots sooner than it's actually possible. He's smart, but not that smart. His eyes slowly shift to the post-it note beside the biege file, a number scribbled down messily. They had sent you home with an officer to calm down from the shock. It had been about two days now as they waited for the autopsies and inspected, but time was running short and he needed your statement before the case runs cold and slips through his fingers. He'd have to interrogate you, ask you to speak on behalf of your friend. It seems you would know the most about her and her true identity as her emergency contact. Maybe‐ hopefully, you'd help provide answers.

But he hates this part. The part where he has to call traumatized homicide victims and witnesses. He doesn't do well at comforting people, especially when he's the type to cut straight to the point. He doesn't know how to stop someone from crying (because someone always does) and he can never stop himself from saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. He's blunt and yet, he's like a double edged sword. And he knows what they feel because he's been there and he sees it every day, even if he wasn't involved directly. If it haunts him at night, then it must taunt them all day. It's a hard push to get over, and even then the wounds never really heal. Suppose that's why Akaashi keeps pushing to solve cases, even cold ones, because he knows how it feels to be hopeless with a dark mentality. Nothing else matters until the killer is at the mercy of law.

He goes back to gnawing on his abused bottom lip, leaning forward to grab the black office phone before dialing the number. He lets it ring, twice before he hears the line click and a soft, weak 'hello?' He clears his throat, picking up his pen to write down anything he may need. This isn't his first rodeo, afterall.

"Hello, is this l/n y/n? Yes, this is the detective on case. Would you mind coming in to answer a few questions about your friend, Michiko?"

—————

taglist ➣

@izzyphantomgamer @callmeignorance @kenmagi @sawasmura @kagsblueberrymilk