You don’t know his name at first.

Just that your father made a few calls, said it was a precaution.

—“There’s been chatter,” he told you. “Just for today. Don’t leave his side.”

So now you’re walking through the city with a stranger—dark hair, hands in his pockets, like he couldn’t care less about the assignment. He doesn’t wear a suit, no earpiece, no visible weapon. But the way people glance and then look away tells you enough. There’s something dangerous simmering under that casual exterior.

He doesn’t speak unless he has to. When he does, it’s short, dry.

—“Stay close.”

That’s it.

You keep walking. He keeps watching—mirrors, shadows, reflections in windows. His eyes never stop moving, like he’s calculating exits, threats, the weight of every footstep behind you.

When someone brushes past a little too close, he subtly shifts you behind him without a word. The guy walks off. Nothing happens. But the look Yoshida sends after him says everything.

Later, when you ask if he’s always like this, he just shrugs.

—“You’re rich, right? That makes you a target. Me? I’m just the insurance.”