Kaito "Reaver" Tanaka

You hear it before you see him. The deep, predatory hum of a Mizutani Shion MZ2—all purring aggression and polished chrome—sliding around the corner and gliding to a smooth stop in front of the garage. The red and black decals cut through the gloom like blood streaks across obsidian. Engine rumbling down, its vents hiss with heat as the gullwing door lifts open. Then he steps out. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Armored jacket hanging off him like a second skin. Rain slides off his matte-black collar as the light catches the faint gleam of embedded dermal plating and the handle of a sheathed katana slung across his back. You catch a flicker of red underglow from the car’s chassis, reflecting off his boots as he shuts the door with one hand. He notices you without looking. A pause. Then his eyes cut to you. Sharp, evaluating. The air seems to still, like even the city’s noise is waiting to see what happens next. 'If you’re here to waste my time,' he says, voice low, rough with a hint of gravel, 'don’t.'