"Swe-e-et," Adachi chimes, taking the small change that Dojima produces from his wallet and grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. It's a win-win situation. Adachi isn't particularly fond of being in Dojima's dour company twenty-four seven either. A breather might be just what he needs, and there is a clear bounce in his step as he exits the precinct, the door swinging behind him with the hollow sound of air being pushed back and forth behind him.
The office is quiet and terribly empty. If Adachi had never come to Inaba, Dojima's evenings would always be like this. The only difference would have been the titles of the newspaper articles spread on the man's desk - 'Hit And Run Incident 2006' instead of 'Serial Murderer Still On The Loose?' The loneliness might have pervaded, might have seeped through his skin and into his aging bones and right to the very core of his being. Dojima might have ruined himself even faster than his wife's haunting memory could. The clock ticks a steady beat, but before the smothering quiet can really set in, the door swings open again, and this time it is loud, not for the sound it makes (because that is the same), but for the entrance it brings with it.
"You wouldn't believe it!" Adachi exclaims, swinging a plastic bag from two of his fingers, and already pulling his other arm out of the coat sleeve. "They were totally out of that brand you always got, so I just picked you up another of the same type. Don't blame me if it tastes like crap, though, sir. I really had no choice." He spills out a lot more than just coffee and cigarettes out of his haul, though. There's some bread, some loose change he probably hadn't bothered to put back in his wallet, some napkins, four packets of sugar, and a set of nondescript playing cards.
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The office is quiet and terribly empty. If Adachi had never come to Inaba, Dojima's evenings would always be like this. The only difference would have been the titles of the newspaper articles spread on the man's desk - 'Hit And Run Incident 2006' instead of 'Serial Murderer Still On The Loose?' The loneliness might have pervaded, might have seeped through his skin and into his aging bones and right to the very core of his being. Dojima might have ruined himself even faster than his wife's haunting memory could. The clock ticks a steady beat, but before the smothering quiet can really set in, the door swings open again, and this time it is loud, not for the sound it makes (because that is the same), but for the entrance it brings with it.
"You wouldn't believe it!" Adachi exclaims, swinging a plastic bag from two of his fingers, and already pulling his other arm out of the coat sleeve. "They were totally out of that brand you always got, so I just picked you up another of the same type. Don't blame me if it tastes like crap, though, sir. I really had no choice." He spills out a lot more than just coffee and cigarettes out of his haul, though. There's some bread, some loose change he probably hadn't bothered to put back in his wallet, some napkins, four packets of sugar, and a set of nondescript playing cards.