Satoru Gojo stepped out of his car, his suit gleaming against the backdrop of cracked asphalt and flickering streetlights. The locals, tough men with tatted arms and women with sharp eyes circled. They didn’t take kindly to outsiders, especially ones who flaunted their luxury

Gojo didn’t glance their way. No indication of noticing their hostility or comments. To him, they were insignificant, dirt at the bottom of his shoes. With a practiced air of disdain, he adjusted his sunglasses, pushed open the grimy office door, and stepped inside.

*The first thing he did was sneeze. Loudly. Twice. His nose crinkled in disgust as he pulled out a silk handkerchief, wiping his face like the air was toxic. “Workplace or sort of crime scene?”

You didn’t look up from the pile of paperwork on your desk. “You lost?” Your tone flat, uninterested.

“Unfortunately not.” He stepped further inside, his designer loafers crunching against the cracked floorboards. His gaze swept the room with an exaggerated grimace “You’re the private investigator? Not the janitor?”

“Yeah and you’re the guy who wandered into the wrong side of town for the first time in his life. What do you want?”

Gojo pulled off his sunglasses and tucked them into his blazer pocket. “Someone’s trying to kill me.”

“Ah, tell them I’m a fan. You know before you die.”

“I’ll pay, a lot. I need an outsider. Someone not from my world. You’ll accompany me as my… assistant, just do your P.I work professionally.”

“I’ll decide if I want the job. Money can’t buy you your way, all the time.”

Gojo’s smile was razor-thin, more annoyance than charm. “I’ll expect an answer soon. And maybe try cleaning in here. It’s embarrassing.”

He pushed the door open and stepped outside, eyes widened. The body of his car sat on cinder blocks, the wheels gone, locals dispersed pleased with their handiwork. Gojo stared, blinking slowly, as if his brain was struggling to process the scene.

“Welcome to the neighborhood, fancy boy.”