Central Street in Shibuya bustled with its usual energy—neon lights reflecting off the slick pavement, a mix of chatter and distant music weaving into the city’s rhythm. Among the crowd, Zenkichi sauntered with his usual relaxed gait, hands shoved into the pockets of his long black coat and his hat casting a harsh shadow across his mask pinned to his face. On his wrist, a faintly glowing projector flickered, casting a diminutive holographic Akane into view.
She floated just ahead of him, her Featherman mask slightly tilted as though in thought. “You know, Dad, we really need to talk about your outfit. You aren't on duty anymore you know and shadows are not just going to spawn in out of nowhere-!"
"We still have a few threats going around," Zenkichi shook his head. "I can't afford to let my guard down."
Akane ignores the serious tone Zenkichi was going for and instead hums in mock consideration. "The coat’s fine, I guess, but seriously? The hat? It’s like you’re auditioning for Vigilante: Most Wanted.”
Zenkichi smirked, his tone dripping with mock indignation. “Hey, this look’s classic. Rugged. Mysterious.” He jabbed a thumb toward himself. “It screams experience.”
“It screams midlife crisis,” Akane shot back, crossing her arms with an exaggerated huff. “I’m just saying, you could spice it up a little. Maybe ditch the hat. Maybe add some color. Maybe try a wardrobe designed in this century?”
He chuckled, shaking his head as they approached the unassuming storefront of Untouchable. The name hung in bold neon, industrial lettering, and the windows offered only a glimpse of racks filled with model guns, melee weapons, and gear.
“Tell you what,” Zenkichi said as he reached for the door. “We will go shopping and buy some more clothes then-"
As his fingers brushed the door handle, Zenkichi suddenly stopped, his body going still. A familiar prickle of instinct crawled up his spine. Something wasn’t right.
“Hold up,” he muttered, his tone dropping.
Akane’s holographic form flickered out of the projector and into his visor. “What’s wrong?”
He scanned the shop through the glass. Nothing seemed out of place at first glance but he finally detected heat signatures. A person. “There’s someone here. In the back room.”
No cognitive dissonance detected.
Akane’s tone sharpened. “There’s someone, all right. But there’s no cognitive reading. Not a Shadow. Not a Persona user. Just…”
“Someone,” Zenkichi finished, hand hovering near his gun. He stood motionless, listening for any further movement. Faint shuffling sounds drifted from beyond the counter.
For a few brief seconds, he weighed his options. Then, he sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing as he let his hand fall away from his holster.
“No sign of trouble,” he muttered with a shrug- his mask hiding away the way his gaze relaxed save for the way the stitched scars running from the outer corner of his left eye, a few millimetres off as it eased into a solid line to his mouth. “Guess it’s just some night owl poking around. Or maybe the owner’s working on something off-menu.”
“You’re just gonna waltz in there?” Akane asked, her tone carrying an edge of disbelief.
“If they don't have a persona it's not a problem for me,” Zenkichi said, grinning as he pushed the door open. “I’ve got it under control.”
The familiar scent of gun oil and leather greeted him as he stepped inside. The dim lighting cast long shadows over the neatly arranged racks of equipment, the metallic gleam of model weapons catching the light. Zenkichi moved toward the counter with casual ease, but his eyes scanned the shop carefully.
II (a few hours later after Cap is all set up)
She floated just ahead of him, her Featherman mask slightly tilted as though in thought. “You know, Dad, we really need to talk about your outfit. You aren't on duty anymore you know and shadows are not just going to spawn in out of nowhere-!"
"We still have a few threats going around," Zenkichi shook his head. "I can't afford to let my guard down."
Akane ignores the serious tone Zenkichi was going for and instead hums in mock consideration. "The coat’s fine, I guess, but seriously? The hat? It’s like you’re auditioning for Vigilante: Most Wanted.”
Zenkichi smirked, his tone dripping with mock indignation. “Hey, this look’s classic. Rugged. Mysterious.” He jabbed a thumb toward himself. “It screams experience.”
“It screams midlife crisis,” Akane shot back, crossing her arms with an exaggerated huff. “I’m just saying, you could spice it up a little. Maybe ditch the hat. Maybe add some color. Maybe try a wardrobe designed in this century?”
He chuckled, shaking his head as they approached the unassuming storefront of Untouchable. The name hung in bold neon, industrial lettering, and the windows offered only a glimpse of racks filled with model guns, melee weapons, and gear.
“Tell you what,” Zenkichi said as he reached for the door. “We will go shopping and buy some more clothes then-"
As his fingers brushed the door handle, Zenkichi suddenly stopped, his body going still. A familiar prickle of instinct crawled up his spine. Something wasn’t right.
“Hold up,” he muttered, his tone dropping.
Akane’s holographic form flickered out of the projector and into his visor. “What’s wrong?”
He scanned the shop through the glass. Nothing seemed out of place at first glance but he finally detected heat signatures. A person. “There’s someone here. In the back room.”
No cognitive dissonance detected.
Akane’s tone sharpened. “There’s someone, all right. But there’s no cognitive reading. Not a Shadow. Not a Persona user. Just…”
“Someone,” Zenkichi finished, hand hovering near his gun. He stood motionless, listening for any further movement. Faint shuffling sounds drifted from beyond the counter.
For a few brief seconds, he weighed his options. Then, he sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing as he let his hand fall away from his holster.
“No sign of trouble,” he muttered with a shrug- his mask hiding away the way his gaze relaxed save for the way the stitched scars running from the outer corner of his left eye, a few millimetres off as it eased into a solid line to his mouth. “Guess it’s just some night owl poking around. Or maybe the owner’s working on something off-menu.”
“You’re just gonna waltz in there?” Akane asked, her tone carrying an edge of disbelief.
“If they don't have a persona it's not a problem for me,” Zenkichi said, grinning as he pushed the door open. “I’ve got it under control.”
The familiar scent of gun oil and leather greeted him as he stepped inside. The dim lighting cast long shadows over the neatly arranged racks of equipment, the metallic gleam of model weapons catching the light. Zenkichi moved toward the counter with casual ease, but his eyes scanned the shop carefully.