The Osakan’s form remained slumped against the wall for a long while, even after his request was finally adhered to and he’d finally been left alone. A soft sigh seeped from his lips as he massaged his temples gently, and then allowed a hand to slide down his cheek. His face, previously red with heat, had cooled down considerably, but pulse still felt white hot despite the cold, dreary weather outside. Decidedly, he was less angry than some seconds, minutes ago but with the main source of aggravation gone, he could perhaps focus on cooling off and assessing the situation that brought them here in the first place—the case.
Despite sharing the body of one, he was no detective. He did not share that love of solving cases for a living, nor did he enjoy the thrill of the moment when a culprit was revealed. The one with the reins was on the opposite side of the spectrum—making the cases, becoming the culprit and pinning it on other circumstances. When it all came down to it, those aspects didn’t garner an emotion from him other than hatred for the notion that he’d been forced to do it—but that was neither here nor there. Right now, he should be completing his primary function—become the mask, the original persona. The one who shouldered the fury of two beings instead of his own.
“… What a pain.”
Head slightly beginning to clear from the red rage, he allowed his eyes to scan the area. Of course, there’d been nothing that he could spot for a first glance but all that was pushed aside when they found a jacket draped upon one of the chairs to the side. That wasn’t left here prior to their forced entry, no; that was… Hakuba’s, wasn’t it? A frown—that would mean he would return, and he certainly wasn’t going to risk another chance for a confrontation again.
So he walked to it, gingerly picking it up as if he’d spotted a wet, dead rat by his bedside. What was he going to do with this now, go out there and return it to the damn bastard? Tossing it into the whipping winds and harsh patters of rain seemed an idea preferred, but wasn’t going to exactly help relational matters, tattered and damaged as they already were. It would’ve probably been better to just wait; he didn’t know which direction the detective went.
Another seething sigh, and an inspecting look towards the wet article of clothing. What was in here, anyway?
The jacket contained two receipts – one for milk at a convenience store, the other for petrol; a little black notebook with short hand notes and numbers in a mixture of Japanese and English; a sturdy pen; a half-empty pack of cigarettes; and a silver lighter with a crest enraged on one side, the initials S. J. Hakuba on the back. All but the receipts were in the inner pocket, with the receipts in the outer.
Were it not for the notebook, Hakuba might have let the jacket go for the time being and come back for it in the morning. As much as he wanted to stand in a doorway and take a smoking break to calm himself, not letting that information up and disappear was far more important. Though, retrieving said jacket for said notebook also meant having the means for a break, so it was win win. Except that he had to go back to where Hattori was.
The detective deliberated about it for half a minute or so, looked at his watch, then started back through the puddles gathering on the sidewalk.
Dammit.