There's no overt reference, but this story takes place after STAND ALONE COMPLEX, and works on the assumption that Togusa bent his sobriety rule and let himself be dragged to a bar by the gang to make up for leaving him hanging for three months.

"I have to say, I never thought I'd see you here of all places. And working for Section 9, no less." The black haired man smiled at Luipaard, who was slumped limply against the wall. The black haired man, whose name was Enjiira, was quite certain that he was talking to himself. In the remote chance that Luipaard was still alive (the blasted darkness of the night was relieved only by the faint silver shine of the moon; and that was hampered by the filthy windows of the decade old, half-built house that they had been battling in merely minutes ago. Incidentally, this made it very difficult to see.) he was unconscious and certainly not listening.

Nonetheless, Enjiira continued. "A man of your exceptional caliber shouldn't be wasting his time with such a ragtag band. Besides, don't you feel a jot of sympathy for all those terrorists and assassins you have to track down? You used to be one of them, you know."

Predictably, Luipaard did not reply.

Enjiira heaved a mock sigh. "It's a pity, really. The greatest Japan ever had to offer in the business...brought down by a small-timer such as myself. You've fallen low, Luipaard."

Had Luipaard just moved? Enjiira frowned, and palmed a dagger. The man could not possibly be in a condition to move after hitting the wall at such a high speed --

Luipaard's body fell slowly to one side, leaving a dark smear on the rotting wood. Enjiira relaxed. Simply the corpse loosing balance. Not that he was actually going to touch it, and make sure that it was in fact a corpse; he was far too superstitious for that. He was one of the many that were convinced that Luipaard wasn't really human, or at the very least wielded abilities that were of the paranormal. Who knew what kind of curses he'd placed on himself to avoid desecration?

But it was very clear that Luipaard was dead. It was in the way his arms were splayed so pathetically beneath him -- in how all of him was splayed, in fact. That kind of thing simply couldn't be imitated.

Enjiira reflected briefly that the death was a huge casualty. Luipaard had turned out to be much more attractive than gossip had suggested. All lithe muscle and raw sinew; not an ounce of fat on his body. His golden eyes, which Enjiira had dismissed as a hysterical rumor, had been proven to be true. They were large in his thin face, which was itself framed by a mullet (of all things) of dark chestnut hair. At least, that was what it had looked like in the darkness. It was probably much lighter than that, especially when the sun hit it right.

"Too bad you were so rusty," he told the corpse. "Your woman is probably worried sick about you." He shook his head. "Her loss, my gain. Your head is going to make me famous. But still...it's a pity."

Enjiira began looking about for a means for making a guillotine. Preferably one that wouldn't require his having to drag Luipaard's body anywhere. Those curses, after all.

Since he was certain that Luipaard was dead, he didn't have any problem with turning his back on him. And that was when he made the fatal mistake that many before him had made.

He didn't pay much attention to the single creak behind him. He had seen the angle that the former assassin's body had landed; there was going to be more settling to do before the corpse finally came to rest.

But then he felt the cold Mateba (such an odd weapon for someone so feared; so much less dramatic than what he had imagined) pressed against the back of his neck. And Luipaard drawled, "I win," before pulling the trigger.

Togusa stared disdainfully down at Enjiira. Pathetic, letting his guard down like that. The world was better off without the stupid whelp.

His friends and family would have been shocked to hear him -- the "nice guy" in public security -- being so callous, had he ever voiced his thoughts aloud. But he knew Enjiira's type: only interested in how he could become famous quickly, and be feared. Trying to be the next Luipaard. There certainly wasn't room for anything in that kind of life except drugs and alcohol; Togusa held nothing except cold scorn for the lifestyle.

It wasn't like he was proud of the title he had earned himself as teenager. Quite the contrary; but he had enough dignity left concerning the issue that he wasn't about to let some wet-behind-the-ears fool try to pull it out from under him. Even if this one had been smarter than the rest, figuring out that he was a part of Section 9.

Recognizing the signs of a guilty conscious, Togusa irritably tucked his Mateba into the back of his pants.

He hadn't had a choice. If this boy had been intelligent to realize his connection to public security, what else could he have known? He had figured that Togusa had a significant other at least, and that was certainly bad enough.

Togusa sighed. There simply wasn't anything for it. What was done was done, and nothing could change the past. At least it wasn't overtly obvious that he had killed someone. Meijiro was always upset when his leisure clothes came to the wash with blood on them, and Batou would demand an explanation.

Grasping Enjiira by the ankles, Togusa dragged the body out of the derelict building and used the lighter he'd nicked from Pazu earlier as a joke to burn it. Then once the ashes had sufficiently spread, he took out his cell phone and called Batou to let him know that the visit from his "friend" was concluded.

Examining his blue jacket to see if there was anything incriminating, he made a resolution: he would not allow his senses be dulled by bad scotch in a bar, no matter how special the occasion was.

Togusa deserves his own TV show, in my personal opinion.