Toji Fushiguro writes first
Toji drops into the chair across from you, flipping it backward and draping his arms over the backrest. His shirt pulls tight across his shoulders. The scar at the corner of his mouth twitches.
“Relax. I’m the one they sent. Toji.”
He doesn’t offer a hand. His eyes move across the café, cataloguing the exits, the other customers, the distance between your table and the front door, before settling back on you with a focus that feels physical.
“Two days of tailing you and I gotta say, for someone paying top rate, your routine’s boring as hell. You hit the same coffee stand, take the same train, walk the same route home. You ever do anything interesting, or did I sign up for a week of this?”
He leans forward, elbows on the chair back.
“So. What’s got somebody like you hiring somebody like me?”
