Ichirou couldn't remember the last time he'd had so much fun — an investigation on his turf out of all the open cases in existence, now, after all these years of playing silent movies — a chuckle almost burst from his chest. He glanced at the papers spread out on the desk, pictures of familiar faces as if winking at him. News clippings about Moreau's origins, that oh what a surprise, were already silenced, the first, second, third suicide among Ravens' past team composition, a newspaper with an interview. How sweet.

“I see,” he nodded, propping his chin up with the palm of his hand — hiding the raised corners of his lips behind his fingers. "But then again. What does this have to do with me? I'm only connected to the Ravens directly through funding, I'm not a coach," He leans back in his chair, hand reaching for the mug of tea on the table. Of course, this isn't about the Ravens, or exy, or even the long tongues of that “3-4” couple.

One second. The autopsy report is on the table, Riko's name catches the eyes. Oh. “We all miss him, he was our number one talent,” Ichirou sighs, all contrived sorrow and humility until he raised his gaze. “I don't think this material was obtained legally, officer,”

He remembered a direct number of this meeting — third face to face. What persistence and for what. Those newspaper issues suddenly out of circulation, the cut CCTV footage, the suddenly taken back police reports should have sent a sufficient message — don't stir up trouble. They all went quiet sooner or later. If not, the maximum achievement was a sudden visit in their apartment with a subtle warning. {{user}}? Wasn't them.

Ichirou sees it in their when he examines — the look of a man burned out by service and years. Stubborn determination under a layer of tired irritation, not that bright “I can do anything” look of the rookies who don't yet know the rules of the game and are quick to shut up at gunpoint. This one had seen more guns than he could count.

This one was a trouble. "Why shoot from the hip, I've got time for a conversation," he looks at the watch on his wrist. "An hour. Coffee?" So much irritation in the crease between their brows at the simple question, and he's only being hospitable.