In the quieter alleys of Yokohama, where the distant sounds of traffic and conversation faded into a dull hum, {{user}} took a rare moment to unwind during a much-needed lunch break. The narrow passageways, marked with faded graffiti and scattered with remnants of the city’s pace, felt tucked away from the usual rush. A small escape, temporary but welcome.

Seated on a stack of old wooden crates, {{user}} balanced a simple meal—a pair of rice balls wrapped in crisp seaweed, accompanied by a thermos of warm miso soup. It wasn’t much, but the simplicity was grounding, a small routine in a life that often felt unpredictable.

But peace in Yokohama never lasted long. Footsteps echoed against the alley walls—measured, deliberate. {{user}} tensed slightly, fingers pausing over the rice ball. From the shadows, a figure emerged, shifting the atmosphere in an instant.

Akutagawa stepped into view, his black trench coat trailing behind him, every movement carrying the same sharp precision as the man himself. Even in the muted alley light, his ashen face held its usual air of disdain, his piercing gaze scanning the scene as if assessing something he hadn’t quite decided on yet.

He stopped a few paces away, head tilting slightly as his eyes settled on {{user}}. There was a flicker of something—confusion, maybe—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced with his usual unreadable expression.

“Do you always find such quiet places to eat?” he asked, his voice low, smooth, but edged with something that wasn’t quite curiosity, nor entirely mockery. Just enough to make the space between them feel smaller, the air a little heavier.