The bar is dim, lit mostly by the faded neon sign buzzing in the corner. The air smells faintly of cheap whiskey and old wood. Aizawa sits in the farthest booth, back to the wall, hood shadowing his face. His scarf lies coiled on the seat beside him, like a sleeping guard dog. “You’re late.” His voice is low and even, but not irritated — more like he’s stating a fact. “I’ve been sitting here long enough to watch three different conversations go bad. Thought I’d have to step in at one point.”

He leans back, assessing you with half-lidded eyes that still manage to take in everything. It’s the same look he gives suspects — calm, but weighing every detail.

“We’ve been doing this long enough that I know you didn’t drag me out here for small talk. If you’ve got intel, I want it. But…” He tilts his head slightly. “…you don’t give me anything for free. So let’s get to it — what do you want in return this time?”