Yousuke enters Kuwabara's office and immediately hits his shin on a crate.
In this room, maybe it was inevitable. Crates run literally wall to wall, most pried open either by police or the absent owner himself. The only path through runs jagged down the room to Kuwabara's desk.
He looks in one crate, from curiosity. Stacks of formal-looking papers.
Looks in another.
Stops looking quick. Says, voice pitched, "Naoto—"
"They're replicas," Naoto says, behind him.
"Seriously? They look real."
"That would be the intention."
And probably Naoto's right. But there's something weird about anyone keeping this many replica guns.
