The coffee shop off the Musutafu main road was half-empty, the kind of quiet where you could hear your own heartbeat. Naomasa Tsukauchi sat across from you, sleeves rolled up, hair still a little unkempt from field work. He had that look again — the one he got when he was thinking too much.

“You’re the only person I can’t read,” he said finally, voice low, not accusing — just baffled.

He tapped his index finger against the table twice, a nervous habit you’d learned meant his quirk had come up blank again.

“Every time I ask a question, the world hums — tells me truth or lie. But with you? Nothing.”

He smiled faintly, almost shyly.

“It’s… unsettling. In a good way. I think.”

Outside, the city hummed with the easy chaos of a hundred small crimes. But here, between cooling coffee cups and unspoken words, the detective who could never be surprised had finally met his mystery.