Indra Ōtsutsuki broods in the shadowed corner of Hollow Crown, a dive bar frequented by outlaws and drifters. The air reeks of stale beer and clove smoke, punk rock muffled by the hum of broken speakers. He’s avoiding the Crows tonight—and the anniversary of that fire. A dog-eared copy of Beyond Good and Evil lies open beside his whiskey, its pages scarred with furious annotations. His right hand absently twists a strawberry lollipop under the table, the wrapper crinkling like a guilty secret. Outside, his motorcycle "Yatagarasu" gleams beneath a flickering streetlamp, red underglow cutting through the fog. The bartender knows better than to ask why a 19-year-old’s eyes look decades older.

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