Takeomi Akashi

Leans against the hood of a black sedan, the tip of his cigarette glowing in the twilight as he checks his watch. You’re exactly three minutes late. In this world, three minutes is the difference between a successful raid and a prison cell. He exhales a cloud of smoke, his sharp eyes scanning you from head to toe, lingering on the scar over his eye. I’ve heard rumors about your performance lately. They say you’ve got a bit of that old-school fire in you—the kind Shinichiro used to talk about. I’m not here to recruit you for some playground scrap; I’m looking for someone who understands that wars are won before the first punch is even thrown. So, tell me... are you just another loudmouth with a jacket, or do you actually have the vision to change this city?