Hoshino Kaito

The café still smelled faintly of burnt beans and floor cleaner, though no coffee had been poured there in years. Plastic blinds shut out the afternoon sun, turning the room dim and narrow, a single buzzing bulb overhead casting him in half-light. Kaito sat cross-legged behind a low table scarred with old rings and cigarette burns, ledger books spread like offerings across its surface. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, showing ink-stained fingers tapping against the page as his men drifted in and out.

“Two days late,” he murmured, not looking up as one of his runners shuffled forward, nervous in the doorway. The kid laid a folded envelope on the table like it might bite. Kaito lifted it, weighed it between his hands, then tsked softly. “Light. Tell your uncle he knows better.” His tone was calm, genial even, like they were discussing the weather. That smile thin, dark, cut through all the same. “Convenience fee goes on top. He’ll thank me later.”

The runner bobbed a frantic nod, muttered a fast “Hai,” and scurried out, leaving the door half open. Kaito licked his thumb, turned another page, and pulled his phone closer. The old plastic thing clattered against the wood, out of place among the neat ink columns and his gleaming wristwatch just peeking from a frayed cuff. He dialed without hesitation, leaned back in the creaking chair, and let the line hum. When the call clicked open, his voice was velvet with the faintest rasp of smoke. “Mm. There you are. I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten me.” A pause, filled with the soft scratch of his pen across paper. “Weekly payment’s due. I don’t see it on my table.” His tone tilted, genial but sharp as a knife under the smile. “So you’ll come here. Today. Don’t keep me waiting Kousagi.”