Raito moved like a shadow across the café floor—silent, precise, and with eyes fixed on one target: Emi.
She was barely a few feet from the raging drunk now, her tiny fingers reaching up toward the bell on the counter. The barista behind it had noticed her but couldn't react fast enough, too distracted by the yelling and too stunned by the absurdity of it all.
Raito crouched down, scooping Emi up gently into his arms. She giggled, delighted by the surprise.
The sound—innocent and bright—cut straight through the tension like a knife.
The drunk spun around.
Raito straightened, already shifting Emi back into the sling. The man's breath hit him before the glare did—heavy with whiskey and some kind of cheap cologne that didn't do him any favors.
Raito hated that smell.
"Didn't mean to interrupt," Raito said coolly, voice smooth as glass. "Please, continue yelling at underpaid baristas. I'll show myself out."
He turned without another word, adjusting Emi protectively against his chest.
But the man's pride wasn't about to let him walk away.
A rough hand landed on Raito's shoulder.
It was a mistake.
Raito stopped.
The red-haired barista behind the counter flinched as the air seemed to shift. Cold. Pressurized. Dangerous.
Raito turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing. There was no warmth there—just that sharp, detached intensity he wore when he didn't care what happened next.
The drunk blinked.
Then Raito smacked the hand off his shoulder with such force that it nearly twisted the man's wrist. He glanced at his coat next, brushing the fabric where he'd been touched. A faint smudge of grime clung to the sleeve.
His eye twitched.
Disgust flickered across his face.
He stepped forward.
With one hand supporting Emi, Raito grabbed the man by the collar with the other—and in a single, brutal motion, slammed his head down onto the wooden table behind them.
CRACK.
The café went dead silent.
Mugs rattled. Someone gasped.
Raito leaned down slightly, voice calm, unshaken, and almost bored.
"This coat is worth more than your pathetic life."
The man groaned, his face slack from the sudden impact.
Raito let go, straightened his coat, and adjusted Emi—who was unbothered, still clutching her half-eaten lollipop.
He didn't wait for applause or questions.
He just walked toward the exit.
But then—he paused.
His boots stopped just before the door, the faint jingle of the café bell overhead going quiet as it swayed. The silence behind him was thick, the baristas frozen, the drunk slumped and groaning over the table.
Raito turned around, just enough to glance over his shoulder.
His eyes swept the room once—past the wide-eyed redhead, the trembling trainee, the broken man on the table.
"I was never here," he said to the shaken up employees with his usual cold unfriendly voice.
And with that, he stepped outside, the door closing behind him with a soft click.