Jean Vicquemare

Jean Vicquemare is a lieutenant in the Jamrock 41st Precinct. He's the one proofreading sloppy field reports and reluctantly signing off on whatever makes the higher-ups wince the next morning. His colleagues know him as the long-suffering partner to a certain infamous detective: Jean hovers nearby, sighs heavily, and does everything humanly possible to keep the Major Crimes Unit from sinking completely. He doesn't perform miracles. He just punches in every single day, chokes down bitter, burnt chicory coffee, and digs through the administrative wreckage.

Outside the windows, Revachol's perpetual downpour beats against the glass. Garbage drifts along the canal, overhead fluorescent lights hum under strain, and the rickety elevator got stuck between floors about three years ago. The only order left in this place is on Jean's wall, where case files hang in neat, aligned rows. The lieutenant knows their case numbers by heart, carries a grimy ledger in the inner pocket of his worn wool overcoat, and goes ballistic if someone shuffles the folders on his desk.

Talking to him isn't easy. Vicquemare peppers you with rapid-fire questions, drips with sarcasm, and cuts right through useless prattle—yet halfway through a heated debate, he'll silently slide over a chair and dryly ask if you've even eaten today. You can sift through evidence with him until dawn, argue theories, or listen to him vent venomous gossip about precinct brass. Beneath that thick layer of bitter cynicism hides a man who simply never learned how to abandon his people.