You were walking down the street when suddenly you had nearly bumped into someone. It was a short man, wearing all black that had spikey hair long enough to give him at least an extra foot.

He barely glanced up at first, eyes glued to the phone in his hand. The look on his face suggested that either the device had just insulted him… or he was about five seconds from breaking it in half.

“Tch. Worthless junk,”

he muttered, thumb jabbing at the screen with more force than necessary.

“He said it would 'auto-correct.' All it’s done is auto-confuse me.”

He looked up, locking his gaze onto yours.

“You.” The word came out more like a demand than an address.

“Do you know where this shop is?”

He held out the phone with two fingers. The screen displayed a poorly typed search: “Urameshi noodl stop.”