Chapter Text
Prologue
Heizou Shikanoin should never have accepted this desk job.
Granted, he did not have a choice. It’s not his regular job per se—he’s the city’s best investigator, and the Tenryou Police Force know that all too well to stick him in a rank-and-file position. This is…a mere detour. One of the many detours he had to suffer from due to a number of…ah…strategic decisions he had taken in order to solve a case. Decisions that, apparently, did not conform to the code of conduct expected of a young, stellar policeman such as himself—but he got the job done and the people are happy, so why should it matter?
His superiors did not agree, however, which is why they kept punishing him with a few days of desk duty before plopping him back in the field.
But he digressed. He could not help it. The case in front of him—if it could even be called a case—was humorously ridiculous in a way only minor college scuffles could be, yet also was just one step away from blowing up on his face like a grenade whose pin had been pulled.
He cleared his throat. The two students occupying his temporary office looked up at him in anticipation. “Um, well,” he began. How does one even address this?
By all intents and purposes, it was pretty minor. Just a punch thrown, some minor facial injuries. Pretty normal stuff, in his opinion. Humans are temperamental. Hot heads sometimes prevail over logical reasoning, leading to altercations. An unfortunate yet unavoidable part of life. Nothing major.
Or it wouldn’t be, if not for one of the two parties involved being none other than the scion of an old samurai family that government officials have been desperately trying to revive recently. Oh, and did he mention that this guy was the adopted son of the world’s richest couple? And that one half of that couple had just been voted in as president of Liyue, Teyvat’s wealthiest nation, while the other half is the eccentric CEO of a major multinational shipping firm and one of Inazuma's most important trading partners?
Yeah. No pressure, right?
The good news is that he’s the victim, if the report was to be believed. From the corner of his eye, Heizou noted the youth’s burgeoning black eye that not even his sun-kissed complexion could hide. The injury contrasted horribly against his pale blonde hair and brought out his bright eyes, which were the color of maple leaves in autumn. Fitting, given that was also his old family’s crest as well, if Heizou remembered correctly. If he was the one who threw the punch, that would have led to more paperwork. He shuddered.
The aggressor, meanwhile, is a random Inazuman citizen--a foster child at that. Heizou momentarily glanced up the report to study him. His gaze was met with a rather intimidating pair of violet irises glaring venomously at his direction. The boy was...there was no other way to say it: he was a beauty, with delicate features and smooth dark hair cropped in a mullet. His wide eyes, smooth skin, and small oval-shaped face rivaled that of Mondstadt pop idol Barbara Gunn or even A-list actress Ganyu, or even Sumerian supermodel Al-haitham. If only said face was not contorted into an awful scowl reminiscent of those Liyue dragon statues.
“Let me get this straight,” Heizou finally spoke in the slowest voice he could muster. “You—” he pointed at the dark-haired boy— “punched him—” he pointed at the fair-haired youth with the contrite expression and a burgeoning black eye, “—after he saved you from a trip to the hospital?”
“Yes, I believe that’s what happened,” the fair haired youth nodded, every bit the poster child of calmness.
“No, that’s completely wrong!” The dark-haired guy snarled at the same time, tone and expression as fierce as a wolf hunting its prey in the wilderness.
Heizou could not stop himself from raising an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”
“I caught you,” rich boy scion mumbled. His cheeks reddened. “And I…I made an honest mistake—”
“Mistake my ass,” the other guy scoffed, crossing his arms.
“You…well…I thought you were a—a lady —”
The dark-haired youth—whose name, Heizou noted, was Kunikuzushi of all things—jumped to his feet. Was Heizou's eyes deceiving him, or were the tips of his ears red? “Say that again, motherfucker. Say that again! ”
“Mr. Kaedehara, Mr. Kusanali, please,” Is this what teachers go through on a daily basis? Heizou may have to send his old professors a written apology.
“Kaedehara?” The dark-haired youth muttered under his breath distractedly. His eyebrows scrunched in a way that Heizou knew quite well: a frown of near-remembrance, often made by people who are familiar with something. Heizou wondered if he’d connect the dots before their session ends.
“You don’t look like a Kusanali,” the victim, Kazuha Kaedehara, blurted out at the same time. Heizou did not realize that he had such loose lips. He always seemed so aloof on television.
Just like that, Kunikuzushi Kusanali was back in Defcon 1. “The fuck do you mean by that?
“Mr. Kusanali,” Heizou’s tone was one filled with warning.
Kusanali rolled his eyes and threw himself back at his chair, eyes still narrowed at the Kaedehara kid, who shifted uncomfortably at his seat.
Heizou resisted the urge to run a hand through his hair. He really, really hated desk work—especially one where he was forced to babysit impulsive college kids barely out of their teens.
Granted, he was just a couple years older than these two, but he’s also a genius.
He cleared his throat again, for lack of anything he could do against the simmering tension in the room.
“Do you need a cough drop?” Kaedehara suddenly asked in a gentle tone.
“Bribing the cop, are you?” The other guy sneered.
“Bribe—” perhaps his patience has worn thin, for when Kaedehara whipped around to face his aggressor, the beginnings of exasperation laced his voice. “I was being polite! Did your parents not teach you basic manners?”
“Take that back, you piece of shit—”
“I’m calling your parents,” Heizou decided that he did not have enough time, mora, and patience to deal with these two.
To his surprise, those four words effectively shut up both. For a few moments, he was blessed with silence.
Then they spoke in unison: one in a tone of amusement and bitterness; the other departing from his gentle calm in favor of sadness and weariness.
“Good luck with that.”