3. wallet

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She has to take two steps at a time to keep up with Hayakawa's pace — she leans forward, cranes her neck to get a good look at his face. Are we going to fight a devil?

Hayakawa frowns imperceptibly. We're patrolling. His voice is clipped.

Oh. Hmm. Okay.

They continue walking in silence – Tokyo's busy at this time of day; Reze's eyes dart around, taking in the shops piling up high to the sky on heaving buildings, the hum of business as they near the intersection bustling with people — clothes, new and fashionable with bulging coat pockets — oh! —

A hand catches hers. Give that back. Hayakawa's voice is stern.

Reze wriggles in his grasp. You spoilsport!

He manoeuvres the wallet out of her fingers and taps a stooping middle-aged man on the shoulder as Reze sulks behind him. You dropped this.

The man looks confused but accepts the wallet back with a mumbled thanks. They move forward.

We are patrolling, Hayakawa hisses at her.

Reze rolls her eyes. And how do we do that again?

By not pickpocketing? Did they not train you at all?

Training? Reze's confused.

Hayakawa scoffs, but keeps walking.

a.n
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