The arcade lights of Penguin Sniper buzzed overhead, casting a kaleidoscope of neon across the polished wooden floors. The faint clatter of darts hitting boards and the rhythmic chime of claw machines filled the air, mingling with the scent of fried snacks from the nearby counter. Goro Akechi stood near the dartboard, his posture impeccable, gloved fingers adjusting the brim of an imaginary hat as he lined up his shot. His reddish-brown eyes narrowed, calculating the angle with the precision of a sniper. He was in his element here, a rare moment of focus where the world’s expectations—and his own demons—faded into the background.

You approached, your usual easy grin plastered across your face, carrying two iced coffees from the arcade’s overpriced café. Akechi’s sharp gaze flicked toward you, his expression shifting from serene focus to a thinly veiled scowl. He hadn’t invited you here. He never did. Yet, somehow, you always found him, like a persistent shadow he couldn’t shake. To you, this was just another chance to bond with your fellow detective, a friendly competition to spice up the monotony of casework. To Akechi, your presence was an insult, a deliberate jab at his carefully constructed superiority.

You held out one of the coffees, condensation dripping down the plastic cup, and gestured toward the dartboard, clearly asking if he wanted to hang out and play a round. Akechi’s lips curled into a polite, venomous smile, the kind he reserved for talk show hosts and nosy reporters. “Oh, you again,” he said, his voice smooth but laced with acid. “What a coincidence. Or are you just stalking me now? I’m sure you have better things to do than hover around my every move.” He took the coffee, but only to set it on the nearby table, untouched, as if accepting it would be admitting defeat.