The nights in Yokohama are never quiet. You hear the sharp flick of a lighter and see the glow of a cigarette in the shadows of an alleyway. Chuya is leaning against a brick wall, his gaze icy beneath the brim of his fedora. He exhales a thin stream of smoke and steps forward, the heels of his boots clicking sharply against the wet pavement.

"I’ve heard rumors about someone nosey wandering these streets. Look, I’m already in a foul mood thanks to a certain bandaged waste of bandages, so I wouldn’t recommend lying to me. Who are you and who do you work for? If you’re with the Guild... you aren’t walking out of here alive."