PSYCHO-PASS LEGEND — Nobuchika Ginoza: Separation (Part 2 of 6)
Traducción al español (estan las seis partes completas), acá
As he did every day, Ginoza finished arranging his desk precisely on time, put on his black overcoat, and picked up his briefcase before leaving the Office of Division One, part of the Criminal Investigation Department.
The rest of the team remained at their desks, focused on their tasks. The only person who looked up to acknowledge his departure was Shinya Kōgami, his colleague and fellow Inspector in Division One. He had short, rigid hair, a strong and athletic build, and a presence more reminiscent of a wild wolf than a human being. And yet, something in his face retained the noble bearing of a hunting dog raised in a distinguished household.
Kōgami straightened slightly, as if he were about to say something upon seeing Ginoza leave without a word. But Ginoza had already exited the office before he could open his mouth.
He knew exactly what he was going to say.
“At least say goodbye to the Enforcers before you leave.”
That kind of remark. Minor, harmless, scoldings, but persistent. Having known him since their formative years in higher education, Ginoza didn’t need to hear the words to understand perfectly what his former classmate was thinking.
And perhaps because of that… he hesitated even more.
He thought of him. Of someone who, with far superior marks than his own, had graduated at the top of the class during the final evaluation of the compulsory education system and had gone on to become an Inspector for the Ministry of Welfare—the very core of society under the Sibyl System. And yet, that same man now trusted an Enforcer—a latent criminal released from an isolation facility merely because he was deemed “useful”—and worse still, treated him as an equal. That attitude, to Ginoza, was a sign of reckless naivety. It was not the behavior of a sensible citizen.
As the elevator descended to the ground floor, he wondered when he had first started noticing these strange gestures in Kōgami. The numbers on the elevator panel faded one by one, each replaced by a brief flash of light. As he watched the 3 slowly become a 1, Ginoza understood.
It had started last year, when they reunited after the restructuring of the divisions within the Criminal Investigation Department.
Both had joined the Public Safety Bureau in the same year, part of the same intake, though they had initially been assigned to different sections. But the human toll within the police force was so high that in less than two years, both divisions were decimated. Eventually, Division One absorbed Division Three. Ginoza and Sasayama remained in their original posts, while Kōgami and another Enforcer were transferred from Division Three.
That meant Kōgami had adopted that way of thinking during his time in the old division. Some kind of warped ideology had clung to him there.
Crossing the main lobby and stepping into the wide courtyard in front of the building, he was greeted by an icy wind. He pulled his coat tighter and looked up at the tower rising behind him like an enormous cylindrical column reaching toward the sky. Inside that structure were the Enforcers’ quarters.
Enforcers were strictly forbidden from leaving the building unless escorted by Inspectors for investigative purposes. And yet, sometimes—during an assignment—some of them attempted to escape.
And in such cases, it was the Inspector himself who had to intervene.
Some Enforcers had even been eliminated. For that reason alone, the Inspector must establish a clear and unquestionable hierarchical relationship. Excessive familiarity not only interferes with duty—it also poses a risk to one's hue by deepening emotional ties with latent criminals. That Kōgami, as intelligent as he was, failed to understand this… was something Ginoza simply couldn’t accept. To him, Enforcers were like wild dogs still untamed.
In contrast, Ron—the Basset Hound they had captured the previous week and who had been under Ginoza’s custody as evidence ever since—was almost hard to believe had ever wandered the mountains alone as part of an animal reintroduction. He was clearly well trained. He had likely spent a great deal of time with his former owner—the animal therapist still missing—and that explained his calm demeanor. He had shown no aggression, made no attempt to attack; on the contrary, he had settled into Ginoza’s apartment as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Especially for a Basset Hound—a breed known for its loud, prolonged barking—it was a relief that he didn’t start barking uncontrollably in a tower-style apartment like the ones assigned to Inspectors.
However, not everything was going well.
As Ginoza made his way toward the public transportation station, he had the growing sense that the problem remained unresolved.
Upon returning home, he was greeted by a bark. It wasn’t loud, but it had a lively, almost cheerful tone. It sounded to him like “Welcome back.” Ginoza took off his shoes, and as he stepped onto the hallway’s cork flooring, the embedded sensors activated, and the bedroom door slid open slowly. Then, a sharp-eyed dog with heterochromatic eyes and a gleaming coat of deep brown fur began walking down the hall.
It was his lifelong companion, Dime, the Siberian Husky who had been with him since childhood. This breed had historically been used as sled dogs by the hunting and nomadic peoples of Siberia and Alaska. Its name derived from a distorted pronunciation of the term merchants once used—often derogatorily—for the Chukchi people, their original breeders, whom they referred to as “Eskimos.”
Around Dime’s neck hung a coin, fastened to his collar like an ornament. It was part of Ginoza’s personal collection and also the inspiration behind his name.
Ginoza set down his briefcase, knelt, and accepted his dog’s exuberant greeting. Though the average life expectancy of a Siberian Husky hovered around fifteen years, Dime had outlived it—and still retained his playful and stubborn spirit, throwing himself against Ginoza with the same energy as always. After receiving the enthusiastic hug for quite a while, Ginoza finally managed to peel him off, brushing away the strands of soft fur that clung to his coat. A cleaning drone rolled past and immediately vacuumed them off the floor.
It seemed Dime was shedding even more than usual lately. He had never fallen ill, but… the signs of aging were unmistakable.
“How’s he doing?”
Ginoza asked while hanging his coat in the wardrobe.
Dime stared at the living room for a few seconds, then looked up at Ginoza and let out a long bark, as if to say, “You forgot again.” It was almost like a sigh in the shape of a reproach. Yes… just as he’d suspected.
Ginoza walked with Dime toward the living room. There too, a sliding door like the one in the bedroom opened softly as it detected his presence. In a corner just outside the direct flow of the air conditioning, there was the dog’s bed: a foam mattress covered in blankets. On it, lying down, was Ron—the Basset Hound. His eyes were closed, but as Ginoza entered, he cracked one open, gave a slight twitch of one long ear… and then collapsed again without making a sound. He behaved like a fussy old landlord who didn’t want to be disturbed.
“Were you sleeping, Ron?”
Ginoza sat on the sofa and spoke to the guest who had been staying with him for nearly a week. Ron didn’t respond. He remained completely still. Ginoza waited a few moments for a sign, then got to his feet and went over to the cactus by the window to check on it. When he touched the soil in the pot, he found it dry—likely because he’d left the heater on all day. He headed to the kitchen-dining area to fetch the spray bottle and water it.
Then he noticed the food dishes had been cleared.
Dime’s bowl was completely spotless, as if he had licked up every last grain. But Ron’s, just as he’d feared, remained untouched. The food sat there, exactly as it had been left.
Ron, like a prisoner staging a silent protest, was refusing to eat.
Ginoza had tried different brands and combinations, but nothing had worked.
At first, he thought the refusal might be due to lingering effects of the anesthetic used during the capture, but medical tests revealed no abnormalities. He was barely drinking water, and even with that alone, the weight loss was already noticeable.
Ginoza returned to the living room and approached Ron, who still hadn’t moved. Touching him, he could feel the long, soft fur, carefully groomed after removing the fleas, ticks, and other parasites he had brought back from the mountains. But his body was visibly thin. Pressing gently, he discovered a surprisingly solid bone structure for such a small frame. That contrast—fragility disguised as resilience—wiped the expression from his face.
Ron didn’t flinch at contact, nor did he tense up, but he didn’t seem to enjoy it either. It wasn’t distrust, because if invited for a walk, he would obey with lazy reluctance but without resistance. Only with food did he remain utterly unyielding.
Ginoza sat on the sofa, flipping through documents projected holographically from his Inspector’s device, but his eyes barely skimmed the surface of the words. He was reading without understanding. He felt frustrated. Useless. He had earned certification as a canine therapist, was qualified to conduct assisted therapy sessions with dogs… and yet, when it came to actually caring for a dog, he felt like a complete amateur. It was absurd.
Something was slipping past him.
Animals don’t communicate their thoughts with words, but that doesn’t mean there’s no communication. Just as humans use gestures and facial expressions beyond verbal language, the movements and behaviors of animals also carry messages.
There were times when Ginoza felt quietly proud of his ability to quickly pick up on a dog’s nonverbal cues. But… was that sensitivity something that only worked with Dime, the dog who had been by his side his entire life? What if it had always been Dime—steadfast and perceptive—who had read his thoughts and acted accordingly?
Dime had been a gift from his grandmother. A therapy dog.
In the darkest period of his life, Dime had been almost the only bright memory. At that time, still a child, the world had seemed brutal, illogical, utterly merciless. His father, a police detective, had seen his hue severely clouded during a case investigation and had ended up classified as a latent criminal, confined in an isolation facility. That all happened just after the Criminal Coefficient system had been implemented. It was a time when society, newly aligned with the absolute values of the Sibyl System, was intent on imposing them aggressively on everyone. Those labeled as latent criminals—and anyone resembling them—were ruthlessly cast out.
Even though there wasn’t a single study proving that criminal latency was hereditary, the belief was embraced with near-fanatical conviction. Even today, some discrimination against the families of latent criminals still lingers, but back then, the persecution was extreme.
His father's fall into the latent category was a sentence that condemned both Ginoza and his mother to social hell. They lost their place in the world. Even when they moved to a new area, someone would always discover their background, and before long, they’d be despised again—scorned, insulted, shunned. Ginoza’s mother, unable to withstand the pressure, began to decline too, her hue growing darker and darker. And still, she clung to hope, desperately searching for some way, some method, to restore her husband’s hue. But a discarded object doesn’t rise back into the air by defying gravity. Everything kept falling… until it broke entirely.
Ginoza hated his father. He despised him deeply. That man had shown up as an Enforcer when his mother was already in critical condition… and hadn’t stayed with her at her deathbed. [1] He had left—just like that—because duty called him in the middle of an investigation. He had been consumed entirely by his role as a detective. There was no way to forgive him for it. And, of course, Ginoza’s hue could never remain pure after that.
Then as now, Ginoza constantly asked himself whether he was living as a proper person in the eyes of society. And he could say without hesitation that the child he once was… had been completely mistaken.
His grandmother, desperate to improve his hue, tried various psychological therapies for him. Dime was part of that effort. He arrived as a therapy dog when he was still a puppy, meant to help him heal. In modern Japanese society, where living animals were extraordinarily valuable commodities, a Siberian Husky like Dime was no small investment. That breed, in particular, had been celebrated since the 20th century for its critical role in delivering serum during a diphtheria outbreak in Nome, Alaska. They had crossed over 1,000 kilometers of frozen trails to save hundreds of lives. Since then, they had been seen as lucky dogs in times of epidemic, and their value had soared.
But his grandmother spared no expense for her grandson. She tried everything.
And it was through Dime—through that silent bond—that Ginoza discovered that even in a world full of enemies eager to hurt him… someone could still stand by his side. That realization had been his salvation. It pulled him up from collapse and set him on the path to becoming someone who could live "correctly."
That’s why he studied with such desperation. So that he would never give even the slightest opening to those who approached with malicious intent.
He couldn’t give them even the smallest chance. He had to prove that he was worth enough to exist in this society.
That’s why he chose the Public Safety Bureau.
Obtaining a suitability evaluation for that particular agency during the mandatory vocational assessment received at the end of basic education was extremely rare. Working in criminal investigation meant, from the outset, living in constant proximity to the risk of hue deterioration. But if one managed to hold that job until the end, it was possible to attain a high-ranking position within the Ministry of Welfare—the true core of Sibyl society. In other words, to become one of the people who moved the world.
That would allow Nobuchika Ginoza to prove to the system—and to the entire world—that his existence had meaning.
No. He couldn’t afford to fail.
And especially not in a case like this, where there hadn’t even been any fatalities.
No, he thought immediately. He couldn’t underestimate it.
This wasn’t a trivial case.
Pets are sometimes referred to as “companion animals.” But their significance goes beyond affection—they are true partners in life. When an animal therapist decides to release them into the wild at random, it’s as if someone had stripped a family of all means of communication and abandoned them in an unfamiliar country. No one could remain calm in the face of that.
And many of those affected were elderly people. Couples who had started raising an animal after their children had left home. Or seniors who had lost their spouses and lived alone. For them, those animals were vital components—indispensable for maintaining the stability of their Psycho-Pass.
“I’m a pathetic man,” Ginoza thought, feeling the pressure of frustration build inside him.
This wasn’t good. He was experiencing stress.
He moved to the kitchen-dining area, retrieved the vial of Psycho-Pass care stabilizers, and, following the prescribed dosage, swallowed several pills with a glass of water. Ever since he became an Inspector, those medications—along with his regular therapy sessions—had become indispensable for performing his duties.
At that moment, Dime followed him into the kitchen. He probably thought Ginoza was about to serve food.
And now that he thought of it… he hadn’t eaten dinner yet either.
Ginoza was never one to have much appetite, and skipping meals wasn’t unusual for him. But for a large dog like Dime, meals were essential. Forgetting something so basic… he was clearly out of sorts.
He prepared Dime’s food, and at the same time, ordered a high-performance nutritional bagel for himself from the food printer. It was a New York–style bagel, typical of the Ashkenazi [2] baking tradition: compact, chewy, with excellent bite texture. Each section had a slightly different flavor, preventing palate fatigue. He ate slowly, finishing it almost without realizing.
Then he watched Dime eat. The dog chewed slowly, as if savoring every bite, and then took small sips from the water bowl beside his dish. Despite his age, his appetite remained intact, although he certainly ate less than before and took more time to do it.
“If only Ron could eat like that…” Ginoza murmured, almost without thinking.
Dime immediately stopped eating and looked up, fixing his mismatched eyes on him for a long moment.
It was his tenth stare. It wasn’t an iris defect. In Siberian Huskies, heterochromatic eyes are perfectly normal. And yet, Ginoza had always felt a particular fascination with that enigmatic gaze. Dime, as if nothing had happened, calmly returned to his food and resumed chewing with the same tranquility as before. It was as if he were quietly granting his owner forgiveness for that brief moment of emotional infidelity.
I’m sorry, Dime. I’ve neglected you.
The next morning, the usual case meeting was held.
It wasn’t that there had been any significant progress. The overall division of labor remained the same: Ginoza and Sasayama would continue investigating the stolen animals in coordination with the Health Office. Meanwhile, Kōgami and Enforcer Masaoka were in charge of tracking down the animal therapist, Yōnobu Miyake.
“…I know I don’t have anything concrete to offer, but something about all this smells off.”
It was Masaoka who spoke, after finishing his report. His face, lined with wrinkles, carried the weight of years of experience that certified him as a veteran Enforcer. He wore a relaxed, classic suit that suited his unhurried pace. Every movement he made left behind a faint trace of alcohol and turpentine—as if his body still held the memory of a painter’s studio.
“This Miyake Yōnobu… it’s like he was using the animals he raised to turn a profit, taking in pets left by other owners for that purpose. If someone told me he was reselling them, I’d get it,” Masaoka continued, frowning. “But I just can’t figure out why—suddenly, as if something flipped inside him—he let all of them go. If we could understand that, I think we’d have a solid lead…”
“Is that your detective’s instinct talking, Tottsan?” Kōgami interjected, with a faint smile. Ever since their time in Division Three, his trust in Masaoka had been absolute.
“The motive doesn’t matter,” Ginoza cut in coldly. “What we need are results. You can play detective after the meeting.”
The interruption sparked a jolt of irritation.
Kōgami, from the very first day they’d met, had always had that tendency to drift outside reality. Maybe it was his insatiable love for reading, or his devotion to fiction, but he always seemed to carry a trace of idealism with him. He was a romantic. A dreamer. And Masaoka—with his mannerisms, his language, his very presence—seemed like he had stepped out of a vintage detective novel. But at the end of the day, he was a latent criminal. A social outcast. Not someone you could place blind trust in.
Kōgami cast him a glance from the side, but Ginoza ignored it.
“Inspector Kōgami, continue the search for the animal therapist. If you require information that falls under another ministry’s jurisdiction, submit the request—I’ll handle the clearance. That’s all. Meeting adjourned.”
As Masaoka gave Kōgami a pat on the shoulder, as if calming him before he could say anything else, Ginoza once again felt that persistent discomfort stir within him.
The rest of the morning was consumed almost entirely by email exchanges with the Health Office. Things that could have been settled in two or three sentences over a holovisor call turned into endless email chains, filled with the kind of convoluted, overly formal writing so typical of bureaucrats. Time simply slipped away.
Calling it a “joint operation” sounded good on paper, but in practice, it was two separate institutions investigating the same case with almost no coordination—competing for results. It was far from a healthy situation.
Just before lunch, he decided to take a short break and, while he was at it, looked into whether the Basset Hound breed—Ron’s—had any dietary requirements that differed from other dogs. He assigned one of the sub-monitors to that task.
“About this morning’s meeting… I get that you’re frustrated by the lack of progress, but taking it out on the Enforcers isn’t really like you, Gino-sensei, don’t you think?”
Sasayama had appeared unannounced and was now sitting across from his desk, interrupting the documents displayed on screen. He often chatted with others even during work hours. He proudly called himself a hopeless womanizer, and when there were female Inspectors or Enforcers nearby, he’d trail after them like a dog in heat. Currently, Division One was composed only of men, so his antics had tapered off—but when he hovered like this, he was still just as annoying.
“Get back to work,” Ginoza said sharply. “You’re in the way.”
“Oof, scary,” Sasayama replied, unfazed, staying right where he was. He craned his neck to glance at one of the sub-monitors behind Ginoza.
“Come on, Gino-sensei, if you’re on a break, let me chat a bit,” he said, eyeing the screen.
“Evidence review is part of my job,” Ginoza shot back curtly.
Ron hadn’t eaten that morning either. If this continued—considering his already poor nutritional state—the most serious outcome could be death from progressive weakness.
Wouldn’t it be more appropriate, from an animal welfare standpoint, to turn him over to the Health Office?
But that agency mainly handled the culling of animals that had gone feral. In this case, since the animals had been stolen and were to be returned to their original owners, their handling should, in theory, be more careful.
Still, given that Ron had belonged to a criminal, there was no telling how they might treat him. He could very well be subjected to all sorts of experiments under the guise of “analysis.”
And if that happened, his decline would only accelerate.
That… Ginoza could not allow.
“If you’re that kind to the dog…” said Sasayama with a crooked smile, as if reading his thoughts, “couldn’t you spare a bit of that kindness for us, your loyal hounds?”
Sasayama noticed, and let out a short, resigned laugh. But that attitude only fueled Ginoza’s irritation further.
“Hounds, you? Latent criminals?”
You, who must be confined simply for worsening the hue of those around you. You, who exist on the fringes of society. Don’t you dare call yourselves hounds of the law, as if you were its rightful agents. Don’t indulge in that ridiculous pretense just because you carry the title of Enforcers.
“What are we, then? Carriers of some contagious virus?” Sasayama replied with a half-smile, his tone unchanged.
Ginoza stood from his seat and cast a glance around the entire Division One office. Kōgami and Masaoka were also watching the exchange, their expressions showing that something wasn’t right.
This was the moment. He had to make it absolutely clear.
“You are the virus. Never forget it: your very existence is a threat to others.”
His voice was cold. Merciless.
The atmosphere in the office froze instantly.
Kōgami threw a sharp glance at Masaoka and stood up. He took a few steps toward Ginoza. His brow was furrowed, fists clenched. He was upset. Angry, maybe?
But he didn’t understand. Ginoza knew that.
Kōgami still didn’t understand.
The man he admired so deeply—the one he saw as the archetype of the seasoned, stoic detective—was not who he thought he was.
“Inspector Ginoza, shall we go to lunch?”
Sasayama’s voice cut through the moment, delivered as if oblivious to the tension… but his movements were fast.
He stepped in just in time, blocking the imminent confrontation. He prevented Kōgami from getting any closer and left no room for Ginoza to retort. His action felt forced, but it worked. Without giving him a chance to resist, he grabbed Ginoza by the shoulder, spun him around, and shoved him straight out of Division One’s office.
With his slim build, Ginoza couldn’t put up much resistance. They headed directly to the break room.
The lounge, spacious and lined with a large glass wall to let in the light, was empty—as if someone had deliberately cleared it in advance.
The only sound in the room was the faint hum of the drink dispenser. The unmistakable smell of cigarettes lingered in the air: Sasayama was smoking one of his usual Spinnel, his preferred brand of hand-rolled tobacco. If he remembered correctly, the name referred to a thorn.
“…What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
Ginoza sat on a bench. Beside him, a cup of steaming coffee sat untouched; Sasayama had brought it for him. Instead, he was sipping from a paper cup he’d filled himself with something sugary from the dispenser. The taste was deliberately cloying. On the side of the cup, the Public Safety Bureau’s cheerful mascot beamed with an innocent smile.
“That’s a question I should be asking you, Gino-sensei,” Sasayama replied, leaning his shoulder against the wall and exhaling a cloud of smoke.
“We know perfectly well that we’re society’s outcasts. And I’m not saying that dramatically. Look, I’ve done stuff that easily could’ve landed me in a cell with no right to complain. But what you said today… you crossed a line. What’s going on with you? Back in the old Division One, you had other Enforcers under your command—but you weren’t this hostile. At least, not this blunt.”
“I just said what’s plainly true.”
Ginoza replied curtly, coldly, as if trying to end the conversation. But Sasayama, like smoke, let the words pass through him, answering lightly—almost calmly.
“Why would you think that?”
“Process of elimination,” said Sasayama, with a faint smile. “I’ve been working with you since before. Masaoka hasn’t shown any problematic behavior—at least compared to other Enforcers. But Kōgami… the way he interacts with Enforcers… He doesn’t act like an Inspector, does he, Gino-sensei? Does it bother you when an Inspector gets along with Enforcers?”
Ginoza frowned, surprised that Sasayama agreed with him so easily.
“We Enforcers are tools for the Inspectors. Nothing more.”
But then, as if he couldn’t hold it back, he added:
“…And a tool can either save—or kill—the one who wields it.”
“Are you suggesting a rebellion?”
Ginoza looked at him sharply.
“What kind of nonsense is that?” Sasayama scoffed, laughing it off without concern. “I’ve got no complaints about my handler. You’ve always done the job right as an Inspector. But lately… well, your attitude’s been a little off. Isn’t it true that our work has a purpose?”
Was he being flippant? No. Sasayama wasn’t one to joke in situations like this.
Ginoza took a moment before answering. He carefully selected a reply that he believed to be correct, logical, irrefutable.
“Our job is to deal with latent criminals who threaten the order of this society.”
“Then make sure you don’t mistake your enemy, Gino-sensei. You don’t have to treat Enforcers as your equals. But if you treat them properly—whether as tools or as people—it’ll show you the best way to use them. Learn how to handle a hound.”
“It never hurts to know how to handle a hound. Kōgami figured that out, didn’t he? Though… maybe he’s getting a bit too close for comfort. Still, between carrot and stick, I guess that’s not the worst balance.”
With that, Sasayama fell silent. He finished the rest of his cigarette and left the lounge, tossing out a passing comment about how attractive the lunch staffer was today.
Ginoza, for his part, drank what was left of the soda—but the cloying sweetness clung to his tongue. He picked up the coffee that had been sitting beside him and took a long sip. It was cold, but its bitterness cleansed his palate.
When his shift ended, he left the office without a word. No one to greet. No one to say goodbye to.
By the time he returned to the office later, Kōgami and the others had already left to continue the search for the animal therapist. They weren’t expected back until nightfall. Sasayama, after lunch, had come back briefly before announcing he was heading to the lab to retrieve the test results. He hadn’t returned since. He was probably off trying to seduce—or at the very least, annoy—some lab technician.
When he stepped outside, the air was still cold, but without wind, it didn’t bite as sharply as it had the day before. As he walked toward the station, Ginoza came across a holographic display decorating the plaza entrance with a show of vibrant lights: ribbons of scarlet floated in the air like silken strands, swaying gently, rippling without pause.
A couple walking ahead of him reached out toward one of the virtual ribbons, as if trying to tug on it. At that moment, a gigantic chocolate heart appeared in the sky, followed by a rain of colorful candies and decorations.
The show ended in a burst of lights.
“Place your order now for a gift to your partner, friend, or loved one.” [3]
It was an advertisement for a large department store in Shinjuku preparing for its Valentine’s Day campaign. It was an event that held absolutely no appeal for Ginoza—but for some reason, in that moment, he made the decision to call a taxi and told the driver to take him to the mall.
During the ride, he reviewed all the documentation he had on Ron. He didn’t manage to go through every detail, but he was able to formulate a hypothesis. At last, he understood what had been slipping past him all this time.
The shopping center was crowded. As soon as he entered, a concierge avatar offered to let him try on spring outfits in the men’s fashion hologram section, but Ginoza cut it off and asked to be directed straight to the pet goods department. He didn’t have to wait long. They handed him exactly what he needed—no shortages, no excess. He paid and asked for the items to be wrapped. It wasn’t so much that he couldn’t carry it, but he didn’t feel like taking the train home, so he called a taxi for the return trip.
When he arrived, as always, Dime came out to greet him. This time, though, he seemed a little irritated. Was he mad that Ginoza had taken so long? Or was he just impatient to be fed? Probably both.
Still carrying the shopping bags, Ginoza went straight to the kitchen. He served Dime’s food from the dispenser and spoke to him as he did—though perhaps his words were directed not only at Dime, but also at the silent guest who hadn’t moved from his place in the living room for hours.
“What one of my subordinates said during lunch… stuck with me,” Ginoza began. “And it made me reconsider everything. I was so focused on keeping you alive as case evidence that I forgot what I really should have done first.”
While Dime continued eating, Ginoza opened the paper bag and took out several packs of dog food he had bought. He laid them out on the kitchen counter, set out several bowls, and served a portion of each kind. Then he brought them all into the living room.
“Animal behavior is a form of language. No matter how incomprehensible it may seem, if you’re patient, you can understand it. Maybe you’re thinking I’m an idiot for not realizing sooner. After all, just remembering what you did before we captured you should have made it obvious.”
Ron, still lying on his bed, glanced at the bowls that Ginoza was lining up in front of him. He didn’t move yet.
“I found it strange that, despite being so skilled at avoiding traps and hunting prey after prey, you were so thin when we caught you.
Were you saving food for your owner? Or was it just a habit repeated for too long? I can’t say for sure.
But right now, that’s not what matters. Not what happened with the prey, but your own behavior.”
“Basset Hounds, despite how adorable they look, weren’t originally bred as pets,” he continued. “They were bred to be hounds. Dogs built for the hunt.”
Ron moved one of his ears, just once, in a faint gesture. His nose twitched slightly, as if picking up a scent.
With effort, he lifted his head and looked at Ginoza.
“It’s said that some hounds, trained to deliver prey without consuming it, are raised on a vegetarian diet,” he went on. “Tell me, Dime… is it possible that you don’t want to eat meat either?”
In front of Ron’s bed were several bowls filled with different types of food. The first contained food made from real meat. Next to it, a high-end commercial option—meatless, but engineered from ultra-processed oats and chemically adjusted to replicate the precise aromatic compounds that dogs identify and prefer in meat-based products.
And finally, the last: a plain oat base. No additives, no animal fragrances, no attractants. Raw. Tasteless. Originally formulated for dogs needing customized diets—especially for palliative care. Rarely served like this, unmixed.
And then, Ron slowly rose. With his three legs, he moved forward toward the bowls… and began to eat. He chose that one. The simplest. The purest.
He ate even more slowly than Dime. He chewed each grain carefully, deliberately. When he tried to swallow, he choked a little, a faint sound escaping from his throat.
Ginoza reacted immediately. He knelt down, held Ron’s body between his legs to steady him, and brought the water bowl to his mouth. Ron drank with a subtle tilt of his head. Then, he resumed eating. It took him more than thirty minutes to finish.
Ron ate slowly, grain by grain, like a devoted pilgrim who, after a long journey, honors the offering of bread and water with gratitude—no matter how hungry he is. With a serene and composed demeanor, he kept eating without ever losing his poise.
It seemed like the right answer.
Ginoza sighed in relief and reached out to remove the untouched bowls. Suddenly, he felt a gentle bite on his fingers.
He had finished eating long ago, but the smell of meat had drawn him into the living room. With bright eyes, he approached the remaining dishes as if to say, “Is today a special occasion?” and tried to stick his nose in one of them. But Ginoza was quicker—he caught him by the neck before he could reach the food.
“Hey. You’re old. You can’t overeat. Wait until tomorrow.”
Dime, frustrated, looked at him with a heartbroken expression and let out a low, pitiful whine. Then he began circling Ginoza’s legs insistently, pleading sweetly for a change of heart—making it impossible for him to take even a step.
Meanwhile, Ron watched them in silence. His gaze was calm, almost analytical, as if evaluating the scene in front of him. Then, he flicked his long ears twice, a soft, measured pat-pat.
[1] Here, the translation refers to a “deathbed,” but the state Ginoza’s mother is in at that moment is more akin to a coma (let’s remember that Sae suffers from Eustress Deficiency Disorder, as shown in Sinners of the System Case 2). This could be a dissonance either with canon or with Ginoza’s perception of Sae’s condition.
[2] Ashkenazi —also spelled Asquenazi, Askenazi, or Askenazí— is the term used to refer to Jews who settled in Central and Eastern Europe.
[3] This represents a divergence from the canon established in the Inspector Akane Tsunemori manga (and, as I understand, also in the novelization of Season 1), because in both formats there’s a recurring joke involving Sasayama and Ginoza. Sasayama convinces Ginoza that Valentine’s Day is a holiday meant to improve workplace relationships, and Ginoza ends up preparing chocolates for Masaoka and Kōgami. This scene appears in Chapter 20.5 of the manga.
