Shura asked, "Price?"
The woman didn't look up immediately. She was still organizing the counter, her hands moving with practiced rhythm—folding, aligning, stacking—like the motion itself kept the shop stable.
"Eight Copp," she replied after a moment.
"For both?" Shura asked again, confirming without emotion.
A small nod.
Her eyes lingered on the items he had placed earlier—sliding across them not like a merchant evaluating goods, but like someone trying to read a story written in objects. The silver-threaded coat especially drew her attention longer than anything else.
"…Do you ever go outside the Wall?" she asked, quieter this time, almost absentminded.
Shura opened his mouth to answer—
A bell rang sharply through the building.
Not loud in volume, but precise. Structured. A sound that didn't belong to urgency, but to control. It repeated once, then settled into silence like a command that didn't need explanation.
The woman straightened instantly.
Her entire posture changed in a single breath—shoulders aligned, hands still.
"You're welcome," she said quickly, already turning away from the counter. "Stay here. I'll be back in a moment."
Then, softer, almost automatic, like something said many times before:
"Sit if you want."
She disappeared into the back room.
The wooden door clicked shut behind her.
Shura hesitated.
The shop did not feel different at first glance—still shelves, still fabric, still dust suspended in slow light—but something about the absence of movement made it feel larger. Empty in a way that wasn't physical.
He exhaled once and began reorganizing his items.
Carefully.
One by one.
The motion wasn't rushed. It wasn't ritual either. It was simply how he handled things when time wasn't asking anything of him.
The mask went first.
Dark metal, hooked onto his belt with deliberate placement.
Then the coins.
Fifty Copp from Zenkyou. Two separate coins from the .
Next came the Vanguard badge.
He paused slightly before placing it.
Just a fraction of hesitation.
Then set it down anyway.
Finally, the silver-threaded coat.
Folded. Quiet. Resting at the edge of the counter like something that still had authority even when untouched.
Not discarded. Not worn.
Just waiting.
Seconds passed.
Then more.
Shura was still standing near the counter, quietly observing the shop's strange stillness.
That's when the customer's behavior changed.
At first, it was subtle.
A shift in posture.
Then a hand that lingered too long.
The movement wasn't accidental.
The man reached toward her—not for the clothes she was showing, but slightly off, invading her space with familiarity that didn't belong in a transaction.
The woman's body stiffened immediately.
Not fear yet.
Recognition of boundary being crossed.
Shura noticed it.
Instantly.
His gaze sharpened slightly.
The man leaned closer again, voice low enough that it wasn't meant for anyone else to hear.
The woman stepped back half a pace.
Controlled.
Professional.
But the distance had already been violated.
Shura moved before thinking fully.
His feet turned toward them.
Not fast. Not rushed.
Just direct.
Before he could fully reach them, the man finally lifted his head—and noticed Shura.
His expression changed immediately.
Not surprise.
Adjustment.
Like he had just accounted for another variable.
"You," the man said casually, withdrawing his hand as if nothing had happened. "Come with me. Back room."
The tone was no longer about the woman.
The woman reappeared briefly at the edge beside him, as if returning with him. Her expression was tight, controlled, like she had already said something and regretted the outcome.
But she said nothing now.
She only watched.
Shura didn't move.
"That's a strange thing to say," he replied calmly.
The man smirked slightly, as if the answer amused him more than annoyed him.
"Think again."
Shura studied him.
Not his face. Not his words.
His weight distribution.
The way his body was positioned slightly off-center, ready to shift in any direction without warning.
Something trained. Something practiced.
Shura slowly stood.
"…Think again about what you just said," he repeated, tone unchanged.
The man's expression sharpened slightly.
"You think I came without preparation?"
Shura didn't answer.
"I said move," Shura added instead.
The man laughed once.
Short.
Unamused.
"Want to fight, brat?"
He stepped forward.
The space between them collapsed instantly.
There was no buildup to contact.
The man grabbed Shura's collar and pulled him forward with controlled force—enough to destabilize stance, not enough to throw him.
Shura's body tilted slightly.
He didn't resist immediately.
His hand shifted subtly toward his Vanguard badge—
Then stopped. Not hesitation.
Assessment.
Across the room, the woman reappeared fully now, stepping out from behind.
Her eyes widened sharply.
"Stop—!"
She moved forward.
But the man reacted faster.
He didn't even look at her.
A single shove sent her back into the counter.
Wood cracked under impact.
A glass bottle rattled violently, tipping and rolling off the edge before stopping near her hand.
She froze for a half-second.
Not pain. Recognition.
Of how out of control the situation had become.
The man turned slightly, still holding Shura.
"Stay out of this. It's between me and her," he said flatly.
Shura exhaled once.
Quiet.
Controlled.
"You're going to regret saying that," he said.
He moved.
Not backward. Not defensive.
Forward.
A single motion became rotation.
His body turned through the man's grip angle instead of resisting it, slipping the tension rather than breaking it. In the same movement, he drove a kick upward toward the man's jaw.
Clean line.
Direct intent.
Impact—
But it did not connect fully.
At the last fraction of a second, the man adjusted.
Not reflexively. Not late.
But early.
As if the shape of the attack had already been known.
His head tilted just enough for the strike to miss bone and brush through empty air instead.
He released Shura at the same time, sliding back half a step without losing balance or posture.
Shura landed lightly, already resetting stance the moment his foot touched ground.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"That wasn't instinct…" he said.
The man smiled faintly.
"…Too slow."