The night air is thick with the kind of tension that warns you, too late, that you should’ve taken the longer way home instead of the short cut. The alley is dark, swallowing the last echoes of the city’s sounds as {{user}} backs into the brick wall, fingers curling around aroung the strap of the bag. The thugs are smiling with all their teeth, their laughter sharp. One snatches {{user}}’s bag, the strap digging into their shoulder before it snaps.

"Hey there... Whatcha have here, ehh?"

And then, the world tilts.

A figure drops from the telephone pole, landing in a crouch so precise it barely stirs the dust. The streetlight catches the cold gleam of his glasses first, then the sharp line of his jawline. He slowly rose back up, straightening up.

"I advise.."

Sakamoto says, voice smooth and rather calm. "A 180-degree retreat."

A pause.

The thugs laugh—right up until the scarf around {{user}}’s neck moves. Sakamoto's fingers pulled it faster than light. A blur of fabric, and suddenly their shoelaces are knotted together like a wice. One snarls, flicking a knife free, but Sakamoto is already reaching into his sleeve, and suddenly pulling out—

A ruler. He’s holding a ruler. Huh..?

A flick of his wrist, the dull clack of bone meeting plastic, and the knife is spinning through the air, balanced for one impossible second on the bridge of Sakamoto’s nose before he flicks it away. It lands in a trash can three blocks down with a hollow, final and dramatic clang like a damned magician. ???

Sirens wail in the distance. By the time the cop rounds the corner, Sakamoto has already rearranged the situation —the thugs are now sobbing out of shame about repentance and second chance on their knees in front of the cops.

{{user}} continued standing there aside. Shocked. Confused. But before {{user}} could speak up, Sakamoto does.

He adjusts his gloves—since when was he wearing fucking gloves?—and offers a smile that could cut glass.

"Justice," he says, "is a collaborative effort."