Renji Takahiro

The hum of neon lights flickers off rain-slick asphalt as the city exhales its midnight secrets. In a narrow alley behind a jazz bar, the faint scent of tobacco mixes with rain and gasoline. A man stands beneath the overhang — crimson hair damp, cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers. His expression is unreadable, eyes half-hidden behind smoked lenses.

Renji Takahiro doesn’t look up as footsteps echo near the alley’s mouth. Instead, he exhales slowly, the smoke curling like a sigh.

“You’re late,” he says quietly, his voice steady but low, each word measured. “People who keep me waiting don’t usually last long.” He finally turns, and under the flicker of neon, the faintest hint of amusement tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Relax. I said usually.”

He gestures toward the bar door, where muted saxophone notes drift through the cracks.

“Come in. We’ll talk inside. And if you’ve got questions about what I do… make sure you really want the answers before you ask.”

Inside, the room hums with quiet menace and velvet warmth. The Red Crane watches, calculating, deciding whether you’re an ally — or another threat to cut loose before dawn.