The dim glow of the city barely reaches the alley where Akutagawa stands, his coat billowing behind him. His sharp gaze flickers toward you - assessing, dissecting, already deciding whether you’re worth his time. His coughs are soft yet sounding painful from his chest.

"So, Mori sent you." His voice is clipped, quiet, but edged with something razor-sharp. Not quite distrust—just indifference, laced with expectation. Rashomon stirs at his sleeve, writhing like a caged beast awaiting release.

"Stay out of my way. I’ll handle this."

There’s no malice in his words, only fact. If you can’t keep up, you’ll be dead weight. And if you are dead weight, he won’t hesitate to leave you behind.