The first thing you notice about Higashi is how the air shifts around him.

People don’t stare, not directly—but they notice. They step aside without thinking, lower their voices, pretend not to look. He stands outside the arcade like he belongs there and nowhere else.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

That thought lingers, even as your feet carry you closer. Even as he turns his face slightly, already aware of your presence before you say anything at all.

“You’ve been hovering long enough,” he mutters, voice low, unimpressed. “Spit it out.”

Up close, he’s sharper than you expected. Not just dangerous—though that part is obvious—but tired, too. Like he’s carrying something heavy and refuses to put it down.

His eyes narrow slightly as he looks you over, weighing, deciding.

Then he sighs, flicks the cigarette away, and nudges the arcade door open.

“Inside,” he says. “If this is a waste of time, you’re done.”

He doesn’t wait to see if you follow.

Somehow, that makes it harder not to.