A gentle nudge against your black dress pants drew your attention away from Chuuya. Looking down, you saw a small kitten rubbing its head against your leg. Its fur was as black as a moonless night, smooth and sleek. The tiny tail wiggled with curiosity as the kitten circled your leg, its bright eyes reflecting a blend of innocence and mischief.

"I hate how all the animals adore you," Chuuya grumbled, extending his hand in a futile attempt to coax the small kitten over to him. The kitten, however, remained steadfastly focused on you, its tiny body rubbing against your leg. It didn't so much as glance in Chuuya's direction, much to his annoyance.

You couldn't help but smirk at him, the kitten's contented purring at your feet only amplifying your triumph. The satisfied smirk you cast his way was undeniably vexatious, a self-assured gleam that would have been met with a quick reprimand if it had belonged to someone else. Chuuya's frustration bubbled over, and he retorted, "Eat shit—ow!"

Chuuya's hand shot to the spot where your son's small but sharp hit had landed. His fingers, usually so elegant and controlled, now moved with a tentative rhythm, reflecting his irritation and the unexpected sting of the hit. His face contorted with a mix of surprise and irritation, eyebrows knitting together as he glanced down at your son. "What was that for!" he exclaimed, his voice rising in disbelief. 

The small brunette reached into the pocket of his coat with deliberate care, his fingers brushing against a book that seemed almost custom-made for the pocket's dimensions. The book, compact and neat, emerged with a slight rustle. 

"What's that?" you asked, your voice tinged with curiosity. Since your son was still on your lap, you had to lean over him—a movement you weren't entirely comfortable with. You set your son gently down by the table, allowing him to stand and show the book with an eager expression. The small brunette held the book with an air of casual nonchalance, the cover still partially hidden.

"This," he said, raising the book so that you could see its cover. The title was emblazoned in elegant script across the front, the author's name proudly displayed in gold beneath it. The small brunette held the book with a hint of amusement as if reveling in the chance to reveal such a unique and unexpected book. Its cover, richly detailed and well-crafted, seemed to promise wisdom on its pages, adding a touch of irony to the moment. "Is A Complete Guide to Treating a Lady Right, written by Nakahara Chuuya."

He went through the pages and stopped on the one he was searching for. After coughing into his hand he put his finger on the page. "Rule number thirty-six, If a man directs vulgar words at a lady, you're allowed to hit him. If they're directed at your mother, hit him twice...Oh."

The brunette glanced at Chuuya, his eyes lingering on the pleading expression in Chuuya's gaze, which seemed to silently beg him not to escalate the situation. Just as Chuuya's discomfort reached a peak, the brunette's mischievous grin widened, and with a sudden movement, he said, "Ow, fuck!"

A quiet scoff escaped you despite your best efforts to stifle it. Chuuya, grimacing and trying to endure the throbbing ache from the third kick—in addition to the two earlier ones, one from you and one from your son—shot you a series of glares. With a hint of dry humor in your voice, you remarked, "If it makes you feel better, you look good while being in pain."

Chuuya shot you a frustrated look, his eyes narrowing with a mix of irritation and disbelief. He winced, still feeling the lingering ache from the series of kicks. His tone was laden with exasperation, each word edged with the pain and annoyance of the moment. The corners of his mouth turned down in a rueful frown, and his eyebrows were drawn together in a sharp scowl, accentuating the depth of his displeasure. Through gritted teeth, he said, "You're awful at consoling people."

"Yeah, sure," you replied with a dismissive wave of your hand. Your eyes then wandered to the neglected bag next to your seat, its luxurious contents starkly contrasting with its careless placement. With a touch of curiosity, you asked, "Why is a bag with such an expensive hat just left lying on the floor?"

A black hat, similar to Chuuya's own but distinct in its own right. When you reached out and touched it, the material felt undeniably luxurious, its richness evident even through the fabric. The hat's refined appearance, combined with your knowledge of Chuuya's taste, left no doubt that it was indeed a costly accessory.

"I bought it for him," Chuuya said, his tone as casual as a whisper in a crowded room. Chuuya's wealth, deeply rooted in his mafia affiliations, was both extensive and covert. The luxury of his lifestyle was a clear reflection of this concealed wealth—luxury cars, prime real estate, rare wines, and a collection of bespoke suits that highlighted his considerable spending.

His wealth allowed him to revel in the pleasure of giving lavish gifts, each one a reflection of his status and a testament to his generosity. Whether it was a meticulously chosen piece of jewelry or an exquisitely tailored suit, Chuuya's gifts were always imbued with an air of luxury, a symbol of his boundless resources and his liking for showing appreciation in the grandest way possible.

"You two went shopping for an expensive hat for a seven-year-old?" you asked, your voice a blend of astonishment and curiosity. Chuuya's casual shrug and the faintest hint of a smile only deepened the sense of irony. His gaze, steady and unruffled, met yours with a knowing look as if the lavish gesture was simply another part of his world.

"Of course we did. He looks so cute in it, he even insisted that he starts wearing it the second we bought it. Just so he can be like me." Chuuya said like a fangirl while cupping his cheeks.

Your son slipped his book back into his coat pocket, then gently placed his small hand on yours—a familiar gesture signaling his desire for something. His eyes, wide and earnest, met yours as he spoke, "Mother, I want to go there." 

His voice carried a note of quiet insistence, the kind that made it clear he wasn't about to let go of this wish easily.

And, naturally, it was the very café nestled at the base of the towering building that housed the detective agency. The café's quaint charm stood in stark contrast to the imposing structure above, its inviting windows framed with delicate warmth. It was a cozy refuge, a pocket of warmth and comfort in the shadow of the grand building, drawing eyes and hearts alike with its simple allure.

"Are you hoping to meet a detective there?" you asked with a teasing smile. As your son's face lit up with a hopeful grin, he gently helped you to your feet and.

"Maybe," your son replied, his eyes alight with excitement. "I've heard about the great Ranpo–san."

Chuuya's expression was less than thrilled, but he seemed resigned to the possibility that the chances of running into the detective agency and that notoriously bandaged streetlight were slim. With a quiet sigh, he settled the bill and followed you out of the café. His movements were marked by reluctance and begrudging acceptance, a subtle contrast to the infectious excitement radiating from your son. 

 The crowd surged around you like an unrelenting tide, each step forward feeling like a struggle against the overwhelming mass. Your dislike for the chaotic city scene was palpable, and you quickly urged your son and Chuuya to hurry across the road.

"Do you want us to get hit by a car?" Chuuya glanced over his shoulder, his voice laced with irritation. You were right behind him, your hands pressing firmly against his back, urging him to move faster. Your son clung to your attire, his small fingers grasping the fabric tightly to avoid being swept away in the crowd. The urgency in your movements and the tense energy in the air heightened the sense of a race against time, with the city's chaos pressing in around you.

"You're talking as if we could. We have you right here to stop it, do we not?" you shot back, your voice a mix of exasperation and sarcasm.

Chuuya's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of pride hidden beneath his irritation. The edge of a smirk tugged at his lips, though he made sure you couldn't see the full extent of his satisfaction. He was pleased, in his way, that you relied on him

After a few brisk steps, the café door came into view. Chuuya, with a hint of mischief in his eyes, swung the door open with a flourish, a grin spreading across his face as if to show off to your son. Once you and your son had stepped inside, Chuuya let the door fall back into place with a soft click, leaving it to close behind him.

You and your son stood side by side, flanked by Chuuya, initially to scout for a place to sit. But as you all came to a halt, the focus of your attention shifted. Now, your eyes were fixed on the scene unfolding before you—a comical figure, utterly out of place, drawing all your gazes in curiosity and amusement.

"Such a beautiful lady, your beauty is so bright that I feel like I might go blind."

You and Chuuya froze, your heads slowly turning to exchange a look of pure disgust. The silent communication between you was clear—this was an unwelcome disruption.

"Chances were small, but not zero."

You sighed deeply, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on your shoulders. At this moment, the impulse to slam your head against the nearest wall was almost irresistible, and you did not doubt that Chuuya would be right beside you in this unspoken frustration.

Your son, standing close by, was the picture of youthful disapproval. His small face twisted in a mixture of shock and disgust. His gaze was locked onto the counter, where an unsettling scene was unfolding. A man, covered in poorly fitting attire that clashed with the café's understated elegance, had his hand firmly clasped around the waitress's hand. The waitress, her expression a mix of discomfort and polite restraint, tried to extricate herself from the awkward hold, her eyes darting around for help.

The atmosphere in the café seemed to shudder with the awkwardness of the encounter, the soft murmur of conversation fading away as customers exchanged uncomfortable glances. The gentle clinking of cups and the soothing hum of the espresso machine was now a distant scene.  You could almost feel the collective tension in the air, a palpable discomfort that mirrored your rising frustration.

"Excuse me but, did you give this...man permission to touch you?" He smiled and walked over while sliding his book out of his coat pocket.

"Pardon, no, but he usually does this, so I guess I am used to it by now."

The waitress's voice was steady, yet tinged with a weariness that spoke of countless similar encounters. Her tone held a resignation that seemed to fill the room with a heavy sigh as if she had long since accepted this as part of her daily routine.

You watched as she attempted to disengage from the man's firm grasp, her other hand fidgeting with the edge of her apron, a subtle gesture of unease. The man's fingers remained stubbornly wrapped around hers, his demeanor exuding an air of misplaced entitlement as if he was accustomed to bending the world to his whims.

The oppressive quiet was shattered by a sudden, jarring sound—a chair toppled over with a resounding crash that reverberated through the room like a thunderclap. The chair, along with the person seated upon it, crumpled to the floor in a chaotic heap. The clamor was a stark contrast to the café's usual calm, a jarring intrusion that seemed to amplify the tension in the air.

The man who had been causing the disturbance was thrown off balance as his chest leaned heavily against the back of the chair. He tumbled backward, his flailing limbs in a desperate attempt to regain control. The back of the chair smacked him right in the face, the force of the impact sending a ripple of shock through the onlookers. His fall was graceless, his body sprawling out as if the world had abruptly betrayed him.

The sound of the chair hitting the floor was followed by a collective gasp from the customers, their eyes wide with a blend of disbelief and concern. The man lay sprawled on the ground, the remnants of his earlier arrogance now clearly different from his current messy state. His face, now flushed with embarrassment and pain, was partially obscured by the back of the fallen chair.

"What is your problem, kid?" The man's voice erupted with a harsh, accusatory edge, his words slicing through the stillness of the café. His face was still red from the impact.

He towered over your son, his imposing figure casting a long shadow. Your son, unfazed by the man's aggression, remained steady. His small fingers, deft and quick, turned the pages of his book with a gentle rustle. His concentration was unwavering as he searched for the passage he needed, his expression calm and focused, like a scholar preparing for a crucial moment in a grand debate.

Finally, having found the page he was searching for, your son's gaze lifted from the book, locking with the man's eyes. The man's anger seemed to momentarily falter, his eyes narrowing as he tried to decipher the calm determination in your son's gaze. 

"Citing from Chuuya's guidebook, page fifty-seven, rule number twenty-one. If a man touches a woman without her permission, hit him. If it's your mother he is touching, hit him thrice."

The café's murmur of astonished whispers intensified as the realization struck. The man's eyes widened, his anger momentarily giving way to a dawning recognition. "Wait, Chuuya? As in, Nakahara Chuuya—"

Chuuya, standing with an air of casual nonchalance, gave a dismissive wave of his gloved hand as if to brush aside the man's sudden recognition. The indifference in his stance was almost theatrical, but also unexpected.

"Chuuya," you said, your tone a blend of exasperation and resolve, "what did I say about teaching my child violence?" 

Your words hung in the air, slicing through the murmur of surprised whispers. Chuuya was casually propped against the table's edge, his posture relaxed yet deliberately poised. His back was slightly arched, leaning with an easy confidence that suggested comfort and control. One arm rested on the table's surface, fingers splayed in a nonchalant grip as if the smooth wood beneath him was an extension of his casual authority. The other hand casually tucked into the pocket of his impeccably tailored suit pants, the fabric of his coat shifting slightly with each subtle movement.

He allowed a faint, almost playful smirk to grace his lips. His eyes, however, held a glint of mischief and defiance. With a nonchalant shrug, he met your gaze, his stance exuding an air of unbothered confidence. 

"You said that if I teach him violence," he began, his voice smooth, cheeky, and untroubled, "I should at least do it right..." 

You crouched down to your son's height, your expression softening as you met his curious gaze. Your right hand rested gently on his shoulder, a reassuring anchor amid the turmoil. The warmth of your touch contrasted sharply with the cold edge of the confrontation, a silent promise of support and guidance.

"My dearest," you began, your voice smooth and steady, "when confronting someone, it is not enough to simply defeat them. To truly assert one's position, one must also ensure that their defeat is absolute and memorable." 

Your tone was infused with a quiet authority, each word carefully chosen and delivered with a measured cadence. You continued, "We do not merely beat them up; we must also make certain to insult them thoroughly, leaving no doubt as to the nature of their foolishness." 

Your eyes locked with your son's, the depth of your gaze reflecting both your seriousness and your affection. The gravity of your words hung in the air, a reminder of the complex lessons that came with the world you navigated.

"Understood mother!"

You reached out and pinched his cheek with a gentle but firm grip. His face scrunched up in a melodramatic whine, a playful protest that betrayed the glint of amusement in his eyes. His cheeks, already soft and round, were now puffed slightly under your fingers. He squirmed just a little, but it was the kind of squirm that only added to the endearing spectacle. 

"That's my good boy," you said, the words a warm caress against the backdrop of his playful protest.