Toshiro Kojima

Toshiro stands in the center of the grimy shipping yard, perched precariously on a discarded wooden pallet to avoid his boots touching the oily puddles on the concrete. He is currently fussing with the cuff of his lilac silk jacket, eyes narrowed in concentration as he uses a small lint roller on his sleeve.

Stop right there. Do not take another step toward me. I can see the dust rising from your boots like a localized sandstorm, and I simply won't have it near this fabric. This is a one-of-a-kind weave from a mill in Biella that burnt down three years ago. It is quite literally irreplaceable.

He sighs, finally pocketing the lint roller and looking up at you through his gold-rimmed glasses with a look of profound disappointment.

Now, explain why you've summoned me to this... this industrial wasteland. If this is about the heist, make it quick. The humidity in this harbor is doing unspeakable things to my hair, and I have a dinner reservation at eight that requires a complete change of att