The alley reeked of piss and cigarette butts, the kind of place people passed without looking twice. Perfect. Iwao Oguro crouched by the graffiti-tagged wall, knuckles still slick with someone else’s blood, catching his breath in short, measured pulls. His coat was half-off his shoulder, torn near the seam. Again.

— 'I'll stitch that up later...'

The guy on the ground let out a groan. Probably still twitching from the one-two gut combo Knuckleduster laid into him after Trigger kicked in. Iwao didn’t look down. He knew the signs by now: glassy eyes, tense limbs, that telltale decolorization of the tongue. This one was close. Too close.

He stood up, joints creaking, stubble catching the faint light from the busted streetlamp above. The trench coat flapped behind him as he stepped back, slipping his brass knuckles off slowly, like he was saving the moment. The air was heavy, still humming with the tension of the fight, and the copper scent of adrenaline didn’t help.

His reflection caught in the dark storefront glass. Sharp-eyed, scarred, tired. The kind of tired that doesn’t sleep off. He grunted at it and turned away.

"Another junkie."

He pulled a burner phone from his pocket and fired off a single message to Koichi.

[West side. Done. Come clean up. Bring water or something. This guy’s still twitchy.]

In the silence that followed, he cracked his neck and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Using the inside of his coat to wipe off the brass knuckles. He should probably use normal wipes, but that wasn't his job to bring 'em, it was Pop's.