"If something happens, I'll take you up on that offer," the detective replied, before raising the window shut. Soon enough, his car was swallowed up by the twisting streets of the district, leaving Aya alone on the side of the road.

It may have been a bit terrifying if she had found herself in the Southwestern or Central District at this time of night, but while many of the shops in the Western District were closed, the shopkeepers often lived on the second level of the buildings, and the sounds of family life could be heard so long as one focused their hearing enough. An old woman played with her grandchildren. Someone was deepfrying tempura shrimp. A puppy yipped against a window. Compared to the sound-proofed, sanitized buildings of their neighbors up north, Tenoroshi's "heritage site" had a warmth that persisted even at night.

And even then, this same district was one where a child could run, terrified of something, until they collapsed in the heat.

Camera & Film was predictably empty. As Aya entered the shop, she saw herself on a CCTV monitor extending downwards from the ceiling. The quality was as crisp as you'd expect out of a camera shop (though videography wasn't Tsunoda's specialty or interest), and the text on the bottom spoke with cheerful menace: 'Smile! You look great today!' The man himself, the only breathing lifeform amongst the aisles of lenses, cameras, film canisters, and tripods, was currently at the front counter, reclining on a faded leather sofa with his socked feet (his big toe poked out of the hole) on the counter. In his hands, he fiddled with an old Polaroid, parts of the case removed to reveal the machinery underneath. A mug of cold coffee sat by his feet, and a newspaper rested on his lap and stomach, where bits of metal and some small tools laid in a disorderly fashion.

"Sup, Aya," he said, not even looking up at the young woman.

With the threat (?) of more obese rats scrambling about outside, no one had any interest left in heading outside. Aya being the exception, the rest turned in for the night, settling into their rooms and preparing for a peacefully eventful day tomorrow. Thoughts of self-defense and rodent extermination would have to wait until morning; now, it was best off just to whittle away the hours until sleep turned from an option to a necessity.


Hiroyuki returned a couple hours later, tossing his overcoat in a heap before slipping into the shower room.

Mochizuki did not return at night.

---

Mochizuki did not return in the morning either.

It was a quiet morning, either from lack of sleep or lack of coffee. There was a pot of instant that was too hot to drink, and there was cheap natto to mix in with fresh rice as well. Leftovers from the snapper was reheated, and miso soup with diced tofu had been set up as well. Sayuri’s cooking, of course. It was warm in the sharehouse, an electric fan already humming away, but the weather forecast buzzing from the radio promised clouds today and cooler temperatures as a result. Not that it meant anything, really.

Hiroyuki reclined on the sofa, dressed as well as always in slate gray slacks and a pinstripe shirt. A manila folder was opened up in his hand, a few sheets of print paper inside. If he seemed considered about Mochizuki not returning or answering his phone, he didn’t show it.

“Well,” he addressed the breakfast-eaters. “As always, we’ve gotta get some club activities done to show off to the university. Picked out some places over the week, so, mm, check these out, pick one, and let’s do some exploring, shall we?”

Or trespassing, depending on how harsh of a light one used to view the club’s activities.

With that, he pulled the sheets out, handing them around to the rest. Each had a picture of the area, a name, as well as some other extraneous details, from address to historical detail. There was Yajirui-Kan, a seventh-generation ryokan that had been shut down a decade past due to declining customers, leaving naught but a boarded up facility in a corner of the Northwestern District no one visited. There was the new apartment complex being constructed at the behest of the Paraiso Conglomerate up in the Northern District, sporting a fascinating mix of Regency-style and Brutalist architecture by the up-and-coming designer, Fukugawa Boris. Construction crews had Sundays off, so all they’d have to do would be to sneak past ground-level security. And of course, on the safer side of things, they could head down to Southeastern District instead, to scout out the fabled warehouse where parts for fighter jets were being made and see if they can get any Instagrammable from giant machines and clanking gears.

The handouts made their way around the circle of university students.

Mochizuki still wasn’t home.

Hiroyuki still made no comment.

Hiroyuki nodded, mentally tallying Iwao's vote in, before waiting for anyone else to speak up. Ten seconds passed. Thirty seconds. A whole minute. He raised a brow, scrutinizing the others, then shrugged. "Well, Yajirui-Kan it is," the sharply dressed man said without much ceremony. "Let's get going, neh?"

Placing his own bowl in the kitchen sink, he slipped the manila folder into his dark, leather bag, visited the refrigerator for a couple bottles of chilled spring water, and waited for the others by the door. It took various shufflings of possessions and toilet visits before everyone was good to go, but once they were, the group moved with relative unison. After a couple months of these sorts of trips, they fell into predictable clumps. Hiroyuki helming the front with Sayuri. Otoya meandering about as he wished. Fumiko trailing behind at a respectful distance. Aya being a curious nuisance who scrambled to catch up once her detours caused her to lag behind. And then there was Mochizuki, chatting with Iwao in the middle of the pack, just two dudes bonding over lacking aspirations and romances.

Not today though. Today, Iwao walked alone, the spring in his step counteracted by the quiet that dominated his vicinity. Cicadas cried in the shadows of trees, and the sea crashed against the shores in the distance, the sounds of nature slowly gradating into the sounds of civilization as they walked deeper into the heart of the Central District. A group of young men and women nodded at them as they passed by, their formal attire and Bibles marking them out as the small Protestant denomination that met up every Sunday for worship. A salaryman, newspaper over his face, snored loudly on the bench of an inner-city park, still sleeping off last night's drunkeness. Taxis, as well as an athletic woman pulling a rickshaw, waited for customers, but the weather wasn't bad enough and the time not urgent enough to require their services yet. For the Urban Exploration Club, the train line would do anyhow. They stepped underground, enjoyed the roar of cold, dry wind as the automated announcer spoke up, and took a short ride to the glitzy suburbs of the Northwestern District.

It had been a steep walk up to where the closed-down ryokan was situated, but there was respite to be found in the plum trees lining the path up, at least. Stone stairs were cut into the side of the hill, a total of twenty-two steps before they reached the top, and the view that was provided to the group as they turned around was...rather mundane, really. Taking shelter in the shade, Hiroyuki twisted open one of the water bottles he brought along, sipping at it calmly, and then handed it to Sayuri to share. For all his many layers of fashionable clothing, he hadn't sweated at all during the stair-climbing. Was he secretly a badass with bombass glutes?!

Probably not. He wasn't the good Captain, after all.

Up close, Yajirui-Kan looked like any of the other old buildings that one may have once seen in the Northwestern District. The wind carried the suggestion of cypress wood, and the front of the entrance held the shadow of the establishment's nameplate. Two stories tall with a tiled roof that peaked upwards, it held all the charm and homeliness of any multi-generational storefront, marred with garrish plywood planks nailed over any conceivable entrance. Rather than looking haunted or anything, it just looked despondent. Too old to survive the era, too distant to be renovated like the rest of them. Hiroyuki let out a whistle, and circled around the back, motioning the others over.

Behind, after ignoring the 'No Trespassing' sign and vaulting over the yellowed bamboo wall, the group landed in a disheveled Zen garden, the sand and gravel long having lost their orderly patterns and lines. Plywood still boarded up the windows here, but one of the doors, leading perhaps to a hallway or corridor, was left exposed. Holes where nails had once been pounded in marked the frame of the sliding door, and when tested, it didn't offer any resistance either. It did end up opening to a ground-level hallway with old signs pointing to the direction of the bathroom, the dining area, and the lobby, as well as the staircase leading to the private bedrooms. The notes had pointed out the existence of a small attic (perhaps in the space of the peaked roof?) and a cellar (promising the possibility of real 'treasure) as well.

"Well, I'll watch our escape. Everyone's got their phones, yeah?" Hiroyuki waited for an answer, but didn't seem all that concerned either way. "Have fun, y'all. Hit me up if you find a hidden room, please."