They all saw it, not twenty-four hours ago: the spy’s gun still smoking as blood bloomed on Cabanela’s side, pooling against the coat’s belt for an uncertain second before ultimately overflowing and dripping down the white fabric, strength leaving the Inspector as if the gods had lifted their hands from him, out of grace, he dropped to his knees as the squad followed pursuit, he did, they saw it happen, they were there.
Today he twirls into the office, tapdances to a halt, bows them good morning. The coat is spotless, not a mending nor stain no matter how much they look, and he knows that they are looking, and everything is as it should be.