Zenkichi’s hand stayed loosely on the grip of his revolver, his demeanor unwavering as the figure stepped into the doorway. His visor’s display flickered faintly, cataloging the young man’s profile: lean, poised, deliberate in his movements. A cutlass rested at his hip, one hand casually grazing the hilt. It was a stance Zenkichi recognized instantly—aggression held in check, but ready to spring at the slightest provocation.

"He hasn't written any posts on the network yet," Akane offers insight- speaking into his mind. "I am not really getting any sort of electronic signal from this guy. Not even a phone. Might be someone new. Or super ancient."

Behind his mask, Zenkichi’s eyes sharpened.

Akira? Ren?

The faint smell of ash still lingered, scratching at the edges of his memory. Something had burned here, but the scent was faint, old. Maybe this kid had been smoking something and if he were a man not weathered down by the past two decades, he may have even questioned that but instead he hummed along. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter right now.

He tilted his head slightly, the movement slow and deliberate, like calming a spooked animal. “Easy there,” he said. His free hand stayed up, open, in a gesture of peace with the other still lingering on the gleaming arsenal. “Didn’t mean to bother you. Just thought this was a shop—figured I’d check it out. From what I’ve heard, the place has some decent weapon upgrades. That’s all I’m here for.”

His gaze flicked briefly to the cutlass, then back to Akira’s face. “But I’m guessing you’re not just browsing. You the owner, maybe?”