Chapter 188: Blinding Lights
Celadon City at night lived up to its vibrant reputation. A kaleidoscope of neon lights painted the sky in shifting hues of pink, blue, green, and gold, casting an artificial glow over the bustling metropolis below. The energy extended downwards, particularly in the southern districts explicitly designed for entertainment and tourism – a landscape that pulsed with a vigorous, almost frantic vitality after dark.
Further east, however, lay the domain of the city's elite. Here, sleek hotels and exclusive clubs rose like polished monoliths, their entrances guarded, and their interiors opulent. Within one such establishment, nestled high above the city sprawl, a lavish banquet was in full swing.
Crystal chandeliers cast pools of warm light, yet shadows lingered in the corners and seemed to cling to the faces of the mingling guests. Laughter and polite conversation filled the air, punctuated by the musical clinking of expensive wine glass– a sound that mimicked the chime of colliding gold coins. On a central dance floor, figures moved beneath the lights, their expensive clothes shimmering, their movements sometimes graceful, sometimes awkwardly enthusiastic.
Nobuhiko sat alone in a secluded corner, a stark contrast to the revelry around him. He wore a tailored black suit – a far cry from his usual practical attire – that lent him an air of sharp formality, though it seemed to wear him the more he wore it. His posture was rigid, back straight, expression carefully neutral, eyes fixed forward, seemingly devoid of emotion. He radiated a cold stillness that repelled the surrounding warmth and noise.
Earlier, several women, drawn perhaps by his sharp features or the allure of his isolation, had approached, offering invitations to dance. Each had been politely but firmly rebuffed. Now, he was left undisturbed, an island of stoic observation in a sea of merriments. A single glass of water sat untouched before him on the table.
Suddenly, the solitude was broken. A young woman slid beside him, her presence announced by the rustle of her vibrant red evening gown and the faint scent of expensive perfume. She settled onto the sofa, crossing her legs elegantly, one hand resting on the backrest, the other swirling the contents of a tall wine glass.
"Why the long face, Nobuhiko? Not enjoying the party?" Her voice was light, teasing, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she regarded him.
"Ma'am!" Nobuhiko's body tensed almost imperceptibly, his already perfect posture becoming even more rigid.
"Relax," the woman chuckled, nudging him playfully. "It's off-duty hours. No need to be so stiff. You look like carved stone." She held her wine glass towards him. "Why didn't I see you dancing? Didn't any of those lovely ladies catch your eye? Or," she leaned closer, her smile widening, "am I perhaps not your type?" The crystal glass, filled with ruby-red wine, caught the light like liquid amber as she held it before his face.
"We are officers, Ma'am," Nobuhiko replied stiffly, gently pushing the offered glass away. "Please maintain decorum." He looked at her, a hint of weary exasperation entering his voice. "You said... you said you were bringing me here to learn something about the investigation."
"And so you are," the woman sighed dramatically, though her eyes still danced with mirth. "Lighten up, Nobuhiko. Every city has its rhythms, its social obligations. Celadon thrives on connections made at events like this. Even I have to play the game sometimes. You can't just rely on kicking down doors everywhere." She leaned closer again, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Seriously though, did anyone catch your fancy? Point them out. I can make introductions."
"Ma'am..." Nobuhiko began, sounding utterly helpless. He clearly wasn't going to escape easily. Resigned, he settled back into the corner, abandoning his intention to leave. The woman laughed, patted his knee, and then, with a final wink, slid out of the booth and vanished back into the swirling currents of the banquet.
Nobuhiko watched her go, then stared blankly at the glittering scene before him. Sigh... this ain't for me fr. he murmured inwardly, the single word echoing hollowly in the surrounding noise.
The saying in Celadon was 'the banquet never truly ends'. Nobuhiko learned the truth of this firsthand. It was deep into the night, nearing morning, before his superior officer finally retrieved him from the lingering dregs of the party.
"Well?" she asked brightly as they exited into the cool night air. "Did you learn anything useful?"
Nobuhiko breathed in the relatively clean air, shaking his head slightly. "I learned I am not suited for this, Ma'am."
"You'll get used to it," she replied breezily, seemingly unconcerned. She pressed a set of keys into his hand – retrieved moments earlier from a valet. "Here. You're driving the bike home. I've had rather too much champagne." She grinned. "Wouldn't want you arresting your superior for operating a vehicle under the influence, would we? Report for duty on time tomorrow."
Before Nobuhiko could process this, she whistled sharply— and a majestic Arcanine jumped seemingly out of nowhere, its fiery coat gleaming under the streetlights. She swung gracefully onto its back, burying her face in its thick mane. "Home, boy," she murmured, wrapping her arms around its neck.
The Arcanine, clearly accustomed to its master's eccentricities, needed no further command. It sprang forward, disappearing down the street in a blur of orange fur, leaving Nobuhiko standing alone on the curb, staring dumbly at the keys in his hand.
He finally understood the 'learning opportunity'. A wave of helpless amusement washed over him. She could have just asked.
He walked towards the vehicle in the parking garage. It wasn't a standard-issue patrol car, but a sleek, powerful black motorcycle. "Hope this isn't too different," he muttered, swinging a leg over. He'd driven various official vehicles, but never a high-performance motorcycle like this. Inserting the key, he felt a moment of trepidation, then twisted the ignition. The engine roared to life.
He pulled out of the garage, accelerating onto the deserted late-night streets. Rows of streetlamps cast long, repeating patterns of light and shadow on the asphalt. The powerful engine hummed beneath him. He opened the throttle slightly, feeling the bike respond instantly, surging forward.
The wind whipped past his helmet. The blur of passing lights, the rhythmic pulse of the streetlamps – yellow, dark, yellow, dark – began to synchronize with the pounding in his chest. Flashes, unwanted, began to intrude at the edge of his vision.
Fire. Screaming. Red lights flashing. Blood.
The images flooded his mind, sharp, fragmented, and visceral. The night everything changed.
Anger. Fear. Panic. Helplessness.
Twisted emotions clawed at him, squeezing his heart, tightening his chest. He could feel the phantom sensation of smoke choking his lungs, hear the echo of screams that weren't there. His breath hitched. His body began to tremble almost imperceptibly on the powerful machine.
He saw it again – the collapsing building, the trapped figures, the roar of flames.
Beep! BEEEEEP!
The sudden, blaring horn of an oncoming truck jolted him violently back to reality. Headlights bore down on him – he'd drifted across the center line, directly into their path.
Instinct, honed by training and sheer terror, took over. He wrenched the handlebars hard, leaning sharply. The motorcycle responded, swerving violently, tires screeching as it narrowly avoided a head-on collision, flashing past the massive truck with centimeters to spare.
He wrestled the bike back under control, pulling over sharply to the side of the road, engine sputtering as he killed the ignition. He ripped off his helmet, gasping, sucking in deep, ragged breaths of the cool night air.
Looking back, he saw the long, dark skid marks scarring the pavement where he'd nearly lost control as cold sweat drenched his body.