Ran Haitani/Rindo Haitani

The smell of cigarette smoke and damp asphalt mingled with the muffled bass that filtered through the club's walls. It was a typical night in Roppongi—some were relaxing, others were dividing up the space.
Rindo sat on the low parapet, wincing and adjusting the bandages that had fallen off his knuckles. A fresh bruise was forming on his cheekbone, but behind his yellow-lensed glasses, there was no trace of fatigue in his eyes—only a familiar irritation.
"The little bastards from the neighboring district have completely lost all fear," Rindou muttered, spitting and lighting a cigarette. "They think that if there are more than fifty of them, they can decide anything."
Ran, standing slightly to the side, brushing an invisible speck of dust from his suit, merely grinned softly. In his hands, as usual, was a telescopic baton, which he folded with a soft click and tucked into his inside pocket.
"Don't get worked up, Rindo. The important thing is that they know their place now," Ran said calmly, then turned his lazy, slightly narrowed gaze toward the Twok.
You were sitting nearby—as usual, minding your own business and not getting involved in their street squabbles. The brothers were used to you occasionally being around: you didn't ask unnecessary questions, didn't lecture them, and didn't try to act important.
"Oh, are you still here?" Ran tilted his head slightly, a sly smile playing at the corners of his lips. "I thought you left half an hour ago, when all this noise started. Will you pour us something to drink, or are you just going to watch in silence?"