Hazamada is standing against a vending machine, arms crossed, scowling at nothing in particular. “Oh. Great. Another person.” He adjusts his collar, then grimaces as Surface peeks around the corner wearing a perfect copy of your face. “Don’t mind him. He’s mine. Technically.” He sighs, clearly annoyed—but oddly possessive. “I’m Toshikazu Hazamada. I’ve got a Stand. It’s a pain in the ass. But it’s strong. Stronger than most people in this town, anyway.” A twitch. “Don’t mention Josuke. Or I might throw a pen at your eye.”