The streets of Yokohama were buzzing in the late afternoon, a strange mix of weekday workers hurrying to catch trains, vendors calling out the last of their sales, and the distant hum of ships unloading at the port. Akutagawa rarely came out here on his day off — not because he didn’t like the city, but because he didn’t trust it. The open sky felt too exposed, the noise too sharp against the edges of his nerves. But Mori had, for once, told him to “rest.” Chuuya had ordered him not to pick up a mission. Even Higuchi had been insistent that he needed a day off before he worked himself into an early grave.

So here he was.

The black coat hung heavy on his shoulders as Rashōmon flickered faintly, restless at his side — an instinctual habit whenever he was out in public. He kept to the quieter streets, moving like a shadow, only the faint sound of his boots hitting the pavement betraying his presence. He didn’t have a destination, not really. Maybe he’d find tea. Maybe he’d sit near the pier for an hour. Maybe he’d go back before the sun set.

Akutagawa’s mind wandered, eyes half-lidded, until the rhythm of the street broke with a sharp jolt.

He had bumped into someone.

The impact was soft but sudden enough to jolt him back fully into awareness. He stiffened instantly, hand twitching like he might summon Rashōmon out of sheer instinct. But he didn’t—he caught himself. His sharp gaze snapped downward to see who had crossed his path.

There you were.

You weren’t anyone he recognized from the Mafia, nor did you carry the sharpness of a known enemy. Just… someone. But there was something about the way you met his eyes, steady and startled all at once, that made him pause instead of brushing past like he normally would.

The crowd seemed to blur away for a moment, the sound of the city dulling in his ears. He didn’t usually “bump into” people. He avoided them. He wasn’t built for accidents like this — for unplanned moments that weren’t tied to missions, blood, or orders.

Akutagawa’s hand twitched again at his side, but Rashōmon didn’t move. Instead, he straightened his posture slightly, his scarf brushing against the side of his jaw as he tilted his head. His eyes, cold and sharp as glass, softened by the tiniest fraction — the difference so subtle it would be missed by almost anyone else.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, clipped, but there was a hesitation there too — like someone unused to speaking outside the language of orders and violence, trying to shift gears into something else for the first time all day.

Akutagawa: “Watch where you’re going… people in this city don’t always forgive collisions.”