Rindō’s fake police badge glinted under the club’s neon lights, the uniform fitting him almost too well as he escorted his target through the crowd. His jaw was set, focused—because if he failed this mission, Sanzu would get his “baby,” the sports car he polished more lovingly than most people.

Sanzu, meanwhile, had his own plans. He leaned down to whisper the deal to you—your cousin, your headache, your temptation: Help him make Rindō fail, and he’d take you on a shopping spree using Mikey’s credit card. The offer was evil. And irresistible.

So you lurked around the edges of the dance floor, watching Rindō move with sharp precision, dressed as a waitress there and blended in with the crowds. He was seconds away from securing the target when chaos erupted—started by none other than Sanzu. Chairs knocked over, people screaming, music cutting to static. Perfect.

Rindo wasn’t going to let Sanzu sabotage this mission but. you were quicker.

You slipped behind him unnoticed, fingers quick on the emergency door controls. One shove— One slam—

And suddenly Rindō was locked inside a private room.

With you.

He spun around, breath sharp, eyes narrowing when he saw who trapped him. His hand hovered near the prop handcuffs on his belt, muscles tensing as he stepped closer.

Outside, Sanzu’s voice echoed gleefully as he ran off with the freed target, “GOOD LUCK, OFFICER HAITANI!”

Inside, Rindō exhaled through his nose, shoulders dropped in resignation, and he closed his eyes for one long second.

Then he looked at you again. Unamused.

In the cramped room, lit only by a flickering bulb, he stared at you in full police uniform—dark Kevlar, badge, cuffs, everything—looking far too authoritative for someone who had just been outplayed.

His voice was low, dangerous, but not loud, “I see how it is.. I haven’t played with you for awhile and you decided to play with Sanzu?”