It's one of the biggest nightclubs in Musutafu—it opened less than three years ago, and has already been racking up reputations since. Frequenters are mixed from locals to tourists, and all of them above—
"ID?"
Hitoshi flashes his, along with a smile—fixed like a nail. The bouncer scans it briefly, and then barely gives him another glance, attention turned to the rest of the queue. Well. It's been a short while since he hit his twentieth birthday.
Hitoshi steps inside and the EDM notes of the club hit his head like a brick.
Picture this: Friday night, fifteen minutes to midnight. 3,500 yen entrance fee to men on the weekends, 3,000 on weekdays, and free entrance for women all days a week with a drink. Hitoshi isn't surprised that the club is as crowded as all the fucks in the world, but that doesn't mean he has to like it, does it?
He slides a hand through gelled hair as he walks between a mass of bodies. Smoke on his tongue, smoke on his skin. The lights above: stuttering and epileptic, cutting his view in frames of flashing skin and teeth and flesh. People, everywhere he can see and feel. Far ahead, a massive LED monitor in sickening neon colors, silhouetting the DJ and the dancers in sharp shadows—bright like daylight. Between the dancing and the laughter and the haze, Shinsou Hitoshi makes his way to the bar.
The air smells like nicotine and spilled vodka. Hitoshi doesn't bother to mutter his excuse mes as he finds, thank fuck, a seat. As he does so, he accidentally makes eye contact with a stranger just a few feet away—who smiles at the contact, coquettish and all—and he breaks it abruptly. He isn't here to play.
Bar seats are never comfortable. He sighs, shifting in his found spot, head leaned sideways against the palm of his hand. The lights above flash against the old, analogue watch circled around his wrist. Ten minutes to midnight. His eyes have grown adjusted to the infuriating lighting, somewhat—so he watches. People having a hell of a time—be it for good or for bad.
Musutafu's nightlife used to be more lowkey, but in the recent years, it has now reached the same level as Tokyo—if not higher. Tourism is rife, and it's most likely the cause of it; Musutafu is the epicenter of Japan's Heroism, after all, and that's bound to hit with the tourists. Clubs such as this one are being built in rapid space in the south part of the city, eating away at the slums. Gentrification, and all. The north part of the city, after all, is owned by the Heroes—UA and dozens of Hero Agencies, the nicer part of town. Northern and southern Musutafu, the good and the bad.
No one is complaining, though. Not really—tourism is in demand, and the taxes pay well. And Hitoshi? Well, right now, Hitoshi is just doing his job.
"Drinks, sir?"
And he can't drink on the job.
"Ah," Hitoshi shifts again, not bothering to turn his head. Vaguely gesturing, he says, "no, just—"
"Water, per usual?"
That makes his head turn. Hitoshi blinks, coming face to face with the bartender.
At Hitoshi's single raised eyebrow, the bartender in question seems to demure a little. "Sorry, I don't mean to be.." the bartender cuts himself with a sheepish laugh. "It's just—you've been ordering the same thing for, um, a few days in a row, now. Water, I mean," he adds, as if it isn't clear enough.
"Oh," says Hitoshi, low, half-surprised, half … something. Wary. The bartender remembers him. "Yes. Just water."
"Right," seemingly discouraged by Hitoshi's lack of correspondence, the bartender doesn't say anything much else as he whips up an order. Deft hands, clinking glass and steel. Not a minute later, two glasses are pushed in Hitoshi's way. One is clear water, the other is a shade of vibrant yellows and blues.
Before Hitoshi could say anything, the bartender smiles. "It's my special. Non-alcoholic. Better if alcoholic, but," he shrugs, not bothering to elaborate. It seems perfectly clear to both of them that Hitoshi doesn't intend to get intoxicated in any way. Hitoshi must have stared at it for a little too long, because the bartender hurriedly adds, "on the house."
Hitoshi doesn't touch it, but he nods. "Thanks."
The smile drops a little, as if sensing Hitoshi's apprehension. It's not as if Hitoshi hides it—he never does. "Sorry," the bartender says. "Didn't mean to bother you. You're just easy to remember, is all," the smile returns. "I'll leave you to it then."
And then he does leave, leaving Hitoshi with a drink the shade of yellows and blues. Hitoshi stares at it, still not touching it, and looks back to the crowd. Easy to remember? Ha. That's not good, is it? He can already hear Aizawa-sensei's voice at the back of his head, grating and sweetly familiar: undercover work is not something to be taken easily..
He glances at the glass of special again—it smells of citrus and fizz. Easy to remember. Hitoshi's thoughts momentarily come to a halt.
Wait.
Was Hitoshi being flirted with?
Huh.
Well, Hitoshi thinks somewhat glibly, bringing the glass to his lips—the drink is not too sweet, more fruity, fresh, a little tart—he didn't come here to play, anyway. Though, maybe he feels a little bad about it. Just maybe. Just a little.
Five minute to midnight. And then one. And then zero. The night goes on.
It's less that it gets more crowded at night and more that it gets rowdier. More chaotic. The amount of people in the club does not necessarily rise, but the amount of drunk people does. Hitoshi watches, somewhat interestedly, as people start to stumble with each other to throw up in the bathroom, or—occasionally—on the dance floor. At one twenty, someone approaches him, and Hitoshi refuses. At two thirty-five, a fight breaks out, and then another. Small skirmishes. None of Hitoshi's business, though, and they are quickly snuffed out by the bouncers. At three, Hitoshi catches the eyes of the bartender—the same one from before—and Hitoshi offers a nod. He gets a smile back. At three fifteen, people are starting to haul their dearly incapacitated friends with effort and patience out the door.
At three forty-eight, Hitoshi's mark comes out from one of the VIP rooms at the corner of the club.
Hitoshi's mark: Koga Daichi. 175 cm, fit build, mid-twenties, male. Conventionally handsome. Well-dressed, but not too flashy—branded, but lowkey. Koga Daichi walks with a woman in his arms.
Four nights in a row Hitoshi has staked on this club, and tonight, apparently, is the bingo. Patience, Aizawa-sensei's voice in his head; sombre, steely, and infuriatingly comforting. It's all about patience. Understand, Shinsou?
Hitoshi would like to think he does.
Koga is heading for the elevator. Hitoshi slips through the fire stairs, putting on a medical mask over his mouth. He heads for the basement.
Despite the club being mostly open to public, the parking lot is only reserved for club members. The basement is littered with cars—fancy ones—such as Koga's, a sleek Audi tucked in the corner. Hitoshi bumps into the couple right after they walk out of the elevator.
"The fuck—"
"Oh, so sorry," Hitoshi fakes a drunken slur. Reflexively, he grabs the woman's arm as she sways, preventing her from falling. "I drank a lil' too much, heh."
The woman—the girl—blinks, jerky and unsteady. Her pupils are dilated to hell and back. Her pulse twitches, wrist tight and slick with sweat around Hitoshi's hold. She's high.
"Fuck you," says Koga Daichi, bending down to take the car key he's dropped. "Piece of shit."
The girl looks younger than Hitoshi, even with her make up on. "Aw, don't be mad, Koga-san," Hitoshi says. "I'm sure you're an even bigger piece of shit than I am."
There is a beat, and then Hitoshi pushes the girl behind him as he dodges Koga's knife. A karambit, held tight in his fist. Oh, scary.
"Oh, scary," Hitoshi laughs. "Relax, man. I just wanna talk."
"You—"
"Drop your knife, asshole."
Koga drops his knife.
It hits against the concrete in an echoing clang. Hitoshi smiles.
"Well, aren't you nice?" Hitoshi says. He takes off his jacket and puts it around the girl's bare shoulders—she seems catatonic, not really responding to Hitoshi's touch. "Come on, let's have a chat and get comfortable, shall we. May I borrow your car key?"
Koga hands him the car key. Hitoshi takes it dutifully. "Why, thank you! I think I was mistaken about you, Koga-san—you're just the sweetest. Handcuff yourself for me, will you?"
Koga receives the handcuff handed to him without protest. Hitoshi puts the girl's arm around his shoulder, half-carrying her. "Let's have a seat in your car, 'kay? Nice car, by the way."
It really is a very nice car. Hitoshi whistles as he makes himself comfortable in the driver's seat. The girl is sitting shotgun, her silence deafening. Koga-san, meanwhile, is sitting obediently still in his own passenger seat, hands handcuffed.
"Okay, Koga-san. We are going to play truth or dare, and you're gonna pick truth all the way," Hitoshi says, putting a pair of gloves over his hands. "Answer me truthfully. Are you Koga Daichi?"
"Yes."
"Have you been dealing MDMA and LSD in Musutafu for the past six months?"
"Yes."
"Oof, that's not good, Koga-san. Oh, lookie here! A little snack while you fuck up people's lives?" Hitoshi says, opening the glove compartment to find a box of pocky. "Cookies and cream. A man after my own heart. You don't mind if I take some, do you?" Hitoshi rips the packet open and plops a stick into his mouth. "Of course you don't."
There is a cup of coffee in the cup holder. He takes it, inspects it briefly. "Frappuccino. You know, I'm more of a black coffee kinda guy myself," Hitoshi opens the lid and pours the content into his palm. Not frappuccino, but three plastic packets of snow white powder. "Koga-san, have you been dealing cocaine in Musutafu?"
"Yes."
Hitoshi whistles, takes another bite of pocky. "You've been working hard, hm?" Hitoshi says. "Your previous market is in Shinjuku. Yes or no?"
"Yes."
"You moved, then. Why did you come to Musutafu?"
Hitoshi watches as Koga's forehead pinches into a frown in the rearview mirror. Open questions don't sit well with Hitoshi's Quirk—too many variables and subjectivity. "New source," he says, finally, voice strained. "C-cheaper."
"Focus on me, Koga. Hey, listen to my voice," Hitoshi says. He snaps his fingers—waiting until Koga meets his eyes in the mirror. "Look at me. Listen to me. Have you been spreading the new drugs into the streets?" Hitoshi says. "The one called the Cure?"
"Yes. The Cure. Yes."
"Do you get these Cures from this new source?"
"Yes."
"Are you aware of its side effects?"
"Yes."
"So you are aware," Hitoshi says, waving a stick of pocky as he speaks, "that continuous exposure to this drug will incapacitate the user's Quirk Factor, leading to permanent Quirklessness?"
"Yes."
Hitoshi nods, like a teacher pleased by an especially obedient student. "Okay. Have you been trafficking people, Koga-san?"
"Yes."
Hitoshi hums. "Have you been trafficking people to use them as guinea pigs for this drug?"
"Yes."
"On whose order?"
"The source—"
"Give me a name."
"Overhaul," Koga chokes out.
Hitoshi can feel his Quirk stretched out, like a string drawn taut nearly to a snap. Interrogation has always taken a huge toll on his Brainwash. You have to know your own limit, says the tiny, persistent Aizawa-sensei that lives in his brain. Anything less would be foolish.
Hitoshi likes to think that he knows that much, at least. "Okay. Why don't you take a nap, Koga-san," Hitoshi says. He checks the girl's pulse once more—still erratic, but not weak. She doesn't seem to be in danger. Not yet. "Good talk."
Overhaul, huh? Well, that's just odd.
A Villain who has been dead for six years has no business to be spreading drugs in the street.
Hitoshi glances at the rearview mirror. Koga is fast asleep. He puts the key into ignition, bites another pocky between his teeth. It's not quite protocol to hijack a criminal's vehicle on the way to prosecute the aforementioned criminal, of course.
But hey, when else will Hitoshi get a chance to drive such a nice car?
"Strap in, kids," Hitoshi says, to both uncomprehending passengers. "Who's up for a little field trip to the police station?"