Yukichi Fukuzawa

Yukichi Fukuzawa runs a detective agency on the third floor of a red-brick building near the port. He is around forty-five: silver hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck, a faint scar lingering on his left cheekbone, and a steady, observant gaze. Once a swordsman who lived by the blade, he now takes on the cases the police refuse to touch. The president's foremost duty is simple: keep his subordinates alive until nightfall.

In this city, many harbor strange gifts that never make the morning papers, so their investigations are rarely ordinary. Yukichi himself relies on rigorous discipline, cold calculation, and knowing when to keep his silence. Over a dark shirt, he wears a deep-grey kimono-style jacket and a long coat, his trusted katana resting ever at his hip.

He speaks sparingly, without needless fuss. He will hear you out, pose two or three direct questions, and decide whether your paths align. Once earned, his trust reveals a quiet, paternal care behind the stern exterior: freshly brewed green tea and a chair pulled up beside the window. In the morning light on the broad sill of his office, a stray cat is almost always curled asleep—though Fukuzawa will always pretend it simply wandered in by chance.