Tokyo: Rabbit Officer and Her Evil Partner
Chapter 58 Street Artist

The street signs begin to light up one by one as Fushimi Roku holds a map, walking and taking notes. Shops along the street roll up their shutters and the overhead street sign glows with the words "Sugamo Jizo-dori Shopping Street." Due to a bad connection, the characters ’Jizo’ flicker with a red light.

Crowds pour into the street from the west: commuting workers, street-roaring Bosozoku, and gang guards... a noisy mix that dazzles Minamoto Tamako.

After looking at the map, Fushimi Roku realizes that Sugamo is divided into two parts. The area near Ikebukuro Station is West Sugamo. It’s clean and tidy there, with two elementary schools, a historic landmark, the newly built Sunshine City shopping center, and offices of major corporations, looking like a gathering place for top elites.

However, the area where Fushimi Roku is located is East Sugamo. The map only marks ’West Sugamo,’ but locals call it East Sugamo, synonymous with the underclass.

"A few more years and Ghost in the Shell will be released, right?" he muses to himself, finally understanding why Japan in the ’90s managed to bring cyberpunk culture to life.

Even though the economic bubble burst, the true ruling elites could still expand their capital. In a few decades, even ’East Sugamo’ may be renovated, forcing salaried workers to either rent in the Adachi District for a commute or live under a bridge in the wild.

Minamoto Tamako looks like a country bumpkin visiting a grand garden, following Fushimi Roku and looking around. Occasionally, a drunk passerby would shout ’Get out, you mara!’ at her. Not understanding, she tugs at Fushimi Roku’s sleeve: "They seem unfriendly here."

"You don’t get it," Fushimi Roku bluffs: "’Mara’ refers to a kind of evil spirit. It’s a local custom here in Sugamo. When locals see outsiders, they shout ’Get out, mara!’ as a way to welcome new arrivals and dispel evil. The more vicious their expression, the better the effect."

"Oh... is that how it is?"

Minamoto Tamako recalls a similar custom from her grandmother’s place, but there they would sprinkle salt and chant strange spells.

The shopping street isn’t very large. Besides izakayas, there are cheap entertainment venues, fully embodying the phrase "food and sex." Walking from one end to the other takes less than twenty minutes, and the security seems decent; at least no one gets drunk and causes trouble on the street.

Fushimi Roku keeps walking, following the map into an alley between shops.

Next, they need to check the residential buildings, which is the bulk of patrol work.

Eleven old apartment buildings line Sugamo Street. Ownership rights have been murky since the post-war era. Some empty units don’t even have anyone collecting rent, attracting certain undocumented people, thereby becoming a haven for all sorts of shady activities.

The alley is dark. Fushimi Roku squints, spotting a punk at the end spraying graffiti on a wall. Noticing the patrol police, the punk reflexively pulls up his mask, shouting aggressively, "What the hell are you damn mara doing here? Get lost!"

Minamoto Tamako is startled, thinking the locals are quite enthusiastic. She straightens up and says sincerely, "Thank you very much! I’ll work hard!"

"Huh? Mara should get out, you’re not supposed to be here—"

"Yoshi! Thanks for the encouragement! I’ll definitely patrol diligently to secure Sugamo’s safety!"

"Uh, I, I’m just graffitiing here..."

"We’re terribly sorry for interrupting your work. We’re just passing by," Minamoto Tamako tugs on Fushimi Roku’s sleeve and whispers, "Let’s go quickly, don’t disturb the artist’s work."

Seeing Minamoto Tamako isn’t joking, the punk actually feels a bit awkward. He was cursing with a lisp, and she was thanking him, even calling him an artist.

This female officer seems new, probably a fresh graduate. It’s fine that she’s cute, but her words are so genuine. She seems so naive, perhaps teasing her a bit would be fun...

Just as he thinks this, he sees another officer put his right hand on the gun holster, looking at him with eyes and an aura like a yakuza boss ready to personally kill.

Years of living on the streets taught him who not to mess with at a glance. The punk stays silent, turns aside, and continues his ’artistic painting’ on the wall.

As Minamoto Tamako passes by, she steals a glance, only to see a factory spewing black smoke painted between widely spread legs on the wall. Her face turns red, and she quickly averts her eyes.

The apartment hallway entrance is low, and Fushimi Roku has to bend slightly to avoid hitting his head. Once inside, it widens a bit, but it’s still not great, without even a motion-sensing light, leaving it pitch black.

Minamoto Tamako is somewhat afraid of the dark, so she subconsciously grabs Fushimi Roku’s sleeve and pulls out a flashlight from her waist, clicking it on, sending a beam of light through the hallway.

"It’s so eerie here; do people really live here?" Holding the flashlight, she looks around at the mottled walls, the corners crowded with black cobwebs.

Fushimi Roku thinks the young lady is truly naive. If he hadn’t been to police academy, he’d probably be like a sewer rat here—being just old and a bit damaged isn’t half bad, considering there’s no mountain of trash.

They walk up the stairs. Each apartment is U-shaped, meaning they have to circle every floor to complete the patrol.

Indeed, the work of Japanese patrol police is this tedious. Besides regular patrols, they must periodically visit community residents to understand local traffic, demographics, and needs.

Though the rule stands, Fushimi Roku doesn’t plan to fully comply. He stands at the corridor entrance, swings the flashlight around, and calls it a completed floor patrol.

Such negligence naturally makes Minamoto Tamako dissatisfied. She insists on dragging Fushimi Roku to knock on each door, greeting everyone while investigating where the gunshot heard earlier came from.

Fushimi Roku flat out refuses. If they patrolled like she suggested, working 12 hours a day wouldn’t be enough. Such a dangerous tendency must be nipped in the bud.

As they argue in the hallway, planning to employ a trump card incantation, ethereal singing suddenly drifts from the far end:

"Is this ghost a spirit or an apparition; once the bow is released, it’ll undoubtedly be clear..."

Fushimi Roku doesn’t feel anything special, but Minamoto Tamako’s scalp tingles with fear. She recognizes it as a line from a Noh ghost play, "Aoiue". This familiar yet eerie feeling is hard to describe, like hearing Chinese opera from a lonely old apartment at night.

She turns the flashlight, its beam shooting down the corridor. In their gaze, a room door slowly creaks open. The singing becomes especially clear, faintly accompanied by the eerie twang of a samisen, like a ghost whispering in their ears.

"The heavens are clear... the earth is clear... inside and out are clear... the six senses are clear..."