Zenkichi let out a long-suffering sigh that definitely belonged to someone at least twenty years older than he was—not that he’d ever admit that part. His fingers lingered on the corner of his taiyaki, thinking of taking a bite. Maybe Akane wouldn’t mind if he stole a bit.
"...Brat," he muttered fondly under his breath. The way she grinned at him, always poking at the cracks he didn’t think were there anymore—it was frustrating in that way only people you liked too much could get away with. He huffed, just shy of a chuckle, and picked at the edge of the pastry.
And then he heard her call out:
"And you'll help me with my plan to help pull Maruki off the ledge!"
Zenkichi froze.
Maruki?
His head jerked toward her like she’d just shouted the word "tax audit" in a crowd. And sure enough—his gaze landed on him. That green yukata, those glasses, that calm, polite confusion as Maruki turned in their direction at the sound of her voice.
Panic didn’t come often anymore. But when it did, it came loud.
"Are you serious right now—Arisato!"
In a single, fluid motion that definitely spoke to years of shadow weapon survival instincts, Zenkichi reached for the picnic blanket with both arms, and—cybernetics or not—bundled the entire thing up in one ridiculous swoop and threw it over his own head. Like some kind of adult child trying to play dead.
He peeked out from underneath the edge of the fabric, eyes wide and burning holes into Hamuko as if to scream, What are you doing?! without saying a word.
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"...Brat," he muttered fondly under his breath. The way she grinned at him, always poking at the cracks he didn’t think were there anymore—it was frustrating in that way only people you liked too much could get away with. He huffed, just shy of a chuckle, and picked at the edge of the pastry.
And then he heard her call out:
"And you'll help me with my plan to help pull Maruki off the ledge!"
Zenkichi froze.
Maruki?
His head jerked toward her like she’d just shouted the word "tax audit" in a crowd. And sure enough—his gaze landed on him. That green yukata, those glasses, that calm, polite confusion as Maruki turned in their direction at the sound of her voice.
Panic didn’t come often anymore. But when it did, it came loud.
"Are you serious right now—Arisato!"
In a single, fluid motion that definitely spoke to years of shadow weapon survival instincts, Zenkichi reached for the picnic blanket with both arms, and—cybernetics or not—bundled the entire thing up in one ridiculous swoop and threw it over his own head. Like some kind of adult child trying to play dead.
He peeked out from underneath the edge of the fabric, eyes wide and burning holes into Hamuko as if to scream, What are you doing?! without saying a word.