Chapter Text
At 9:47 a.m., Isagi was sorting through last month’s case files.
Well. “Sorting” was a strong word. What he was actually doing was dragging folders around his desktop and lining them up by date like he was tidying a dollhouse for someone else.
Which, to be fair, he kind of was.
The habit existed for one reason only: so the dev team could dramatically hijack his computer and pretend it was an immersive chapter-select screen instead of Isagi’s very normal office computer being violated for narrative convenience.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Isagi didn’t look up. He knew that gait. It was the walk of a man who was currently supposed to be at the police station, on duty, doing police things—yet was instead here, once again, committing time theft with perfect confidence.
Even the way the door opened was familiar. Barou didn’t so much open doors as issue them a command. The hinges gave the same long, suffering creak they always did, identical to the previous forty-two times.
Forty-two.
At this point, the number itself had become suspicious. Isagi had tried to keep count past it—he really had—but for some reason, every time he thought back on it, it was always the forty-second time. Never the forty-third. Never the fifty-eighth. Just forty-two, like the game had run out of memory and refused to patch it.
Barou Shoei dropped a paper bag onto Isagi’s desk, and the cramped detective office was instantly filled with the smell of fresh bread.
Isagi glanced at the logo on the bag, then mentally mapped the route. The bakery was in the exact opposite direction from the police station. To get there, Barou would’ve had to cross the entire shopping street and wait at three traffic lights.
“I was in the area,” Barou said, clearing his throat and looking anywhere but Isagi.
The lie arrived in full uniform.
He was dressed for duty, minus the cap—because of course he was. His hair was still spiking up like it had a personal grudge against authority. When Isagi first met him, he’d honestly assumed the dev team had designed the hair first and only later remembered police officers usually wore hats.
A faint blush sat across Barou’s face, as subtle as a fire alarm. But Isagi chose mercy. “Thanks.”
“Can’t you keep this place a little cleaner?”
There it was.
If someone had told Isagi a cop could be this aggressively domestic, he would’ve asked what kind of weird dating sim route they were on. But Barou was, inexplicably, a complete neat freak. The second he noticed the half-finished coffee cup on Isagi’s desk, he clicked his tongue, grabbed it, stalked to the sink in the back, washed it, and—because apparently he had no respect for boundaries—refilled it before bringing it back.
Isagi took the fresh cup without a shred of guilt. “It’s nice having you around.”
“Tch. I just can’t stand looking at a mess,” Barou muttered. He said it like a threat, while standing there with warm bread and freshly poured coffee like somebody’s overworked househusband mod had been installed by mistake.
Then he casually dragged over the notebook Isagi had been reading. “Got a new case? What is it?”
“Ms. Ishikawa says her cat’s missing. She wants us to help find her.” Isagi took a bite of bread, cheeks puffed full, so his words came out a little muffled.
“Good. I’ve got nothing else going on anyway. Let’s move.” Barou planted his hands on his hips and jerked his chin toward the door.
Isagi grabbed the bread and followed, already bracing for the usual fade-to-black transition the moment they stepped out. They were an indie game, after all. There was no budget for actual scene transitions.
When they stepped out onto the street, the convenience store owner spotted them and waved.“Detective Isagi! Officer Barou! Perfect timing!”
That was when Isagi noticed the TV behind her: a giant grinning emoticon face filled the screen—round, pixelated, and deeply malicious—cackling like it had just discovered tax fraud, arson, and joy all at once.
“Ma’am,” Isagi said, already tired, “why is your TV laughing at me?”
His question was nearly swallowed by the noise.
“HEH HEH HEH—” the face wheezed, shaking with laughter. “I’M GOING TO KILL ALL OF YOU—HEH HEH—especially that one with the hair—”
Barou’s eye twitched.
The owner sighed the sigh of a woman abandoned by both God and consumer protection laws. “It’s a horror tape I bought, and now it won’t stop doing that. The tape’s jammed too. I tried unplugging it, smacking it, apologizing to it, and threatening it with holy water.”
“Your holy water was expired!” the face snapped from the TV. “And your taste in movies is a war crime!”
Isagi blinked: Okay. It was interactive.
“Wait,” he said, squinting at the screen. “Can it hear us?”
The emoticon gasped theatrically. “Wow. The detective figured it out. Incredible. Next he’ll solve ‘why the sun is bright.’”
Barou was done. He walked over, expression flat, and kicked the VCR sitting on the floor.
“OW—AHH! FOUL! POLICE BRUTALITY!” the emoticon shrieked, period eyes became very big. “YOU CAN’T JUST—”
The TV flickered. The evil face vanished mid-complaint. The screen snapped back to a normal channel, and the tape popped out with a clean little click like the machine itself had decided it wanted no part in this anymore.
Silence.
Then the owner nodded, impressed. “Well. That worked.”
Apparently Barou had once again deployed his signature repair technique: violence with excellent timing. The red-eyed police bent down, picked up the tape, and handed it over. Isagi leaned in and read the handwritten label.
[The Evil Emoticon Killer]
From the tape in his hand, a muffled voice yelled, “I can still hear you, you know!”
The owner grimaced. “I love bad movies, okay? I found it at a flea market because it looked cheap and terrible. I had standards, and somehow it still failed them.” She shoved her hands at Isagi like she was trying to physically transfer the problem. “Take it. Please. I never want to hear that thing roast my snacks again.”
From the tape: “Your instant noodles are expired.”
“They are vintage!” the owner snapped.
In Twin-Mountains Town, nonsense like this happened often enough that nobody even paused anymore. Haunted appliances. Possessed vending machines. One time a stop sign had started giving relationship advice. This was, if anything, a fairly manageable Tuesday.
Isagi slipped the tape into his pocket (or, item list). The tape wriggled. “I hate it in here. It smells like breadcrumbs and unresolved romantic feelings between two detectives.”
Which was weirdly specific.
Barou looked deeply unconvinced. “And what exactly is that supposed to be useful for?”
“Who knows.” Isagi sighed as they started walking again. “Puzzle games are like this. They’ll hand you a cursed VHS possessed by a homicidal emoji now, and three scenes later you’ll need it.”
From Isagi’s pocket, the tape muttered, “I prefer ‘vengeful visual entity.’”
Barou’s stare turned even flatter. “I’m throwing you down the sewer.”
“Fine I’ll behave,” the emoticon finally silenced, “I don’t like the gators there.”
According to Ms. Ishikawa, her cat Alice had bolted the second she opened the door to check the mail, shot down the street like a furry missile, and vanished toward the plaza.
Which was, unfortunately, the worst possible direction.
The plaza sat dead center in Twin-Mountains Town, with roads splitting off in every direction like a badly designed puzzle hub. If a cat wanted to disappear, this was prime real estate.
“This statue looks like it’s hiding its face and crying,” Isagi said, stopping by the fountain to stare up at it. “Either it’s deeply moved by human suffering, or it’s a reference to that British Time Lord show and we’re all about to get sued.”
Barou scratched his head and looked one sentence away from resigning. “Do you have to comment on every object we pass?”
“Yeah,” Isagi said. “The player’s out there clicking on things. I have a responsibility.”
Barou muttered something that sounded like a prayer for patience.
Isagi moved to the notice board nearby.
Being in the middle of town, it looked exactly how a public notice board in Twin-Mountains Town should look: catastrophic. Flyers were pasted over older flyers, which were pasted over even older flyers, which had somehow fossilized into the wood. The whole thing was so thick with paper it looked load-bearing now. The janitor had probably taken one look at it months ago and decided to transfer districts.
They both scanned the overlapping mess.
Lost dogs. Piano lessons. “Local man seeks witnesses to an argument with a vending machine.” Three separate posters for the same haunted flea market. A flyer that just said DON’T OPEN THE RED DOOR with no other context.
Then Isagi spotted one that stood out immediately; it was an art commission post. “Isagi Yoichi solo portrait, half-body. Artist needs to master anatomy. Budget $1,000+.”
Isagi lit up. “No way. Our game already has fanart commissions? And the person is willing to pay $1000!” He sounded genuinely delighted, like he’d just found proof of life in the universe.
Barou gave a flat, disinterested snort, the kind that said he considered “fanart” a lesser crime than jaywalking but not by much.
“Tch.”
He should’ve looked away. Instead, his eyes drifted—completely against his will, obviously—to Isagi’s side profile while Isagi leaned closer to read the flyer. The black hair, the focused expression, the way he looked weirdly serious about a poster someone had stapled on top of a plumbing ad—
Barou looked away so fast it was almost a recoil.
Isagi, still pleased, tapped the paper. “Ten thousand plus, too. Wow. I’m expensive.”
“Don’t get smug,” Barou said immediately.
“I’m not smug. I’m market value.” Isagi turned away from the notice board and looked up—just in time to catch Barou staring directly at him. Barou was very clearly looking at him, and he only looked away after a beat too long, with the kind of forced casualness that made it worse.
“So,” Barou said in a voice that very obviously meant can we focus, “the cat ran toward the plaza. Then what? This place connects to seven, maybe eight roads. We’re supposed to ask around one by one?”
The tone was all business, but the faint color in his ears ruined the effect. Isagi decided to be merciful and let him pretend nothing had happened.
He shoved both the fanart poster and Barou’s suspicious timing into the back of his mind and focused. Ms. Ishikawa had said Alice ran toward the plaza—but the plaza was a hub, and from here the cat could have gone almost anywhere. East led to the shopping street, west to the old district, north to the school, south to the riverside path, and the diagonal roads were probably locked behind plot progression.
As his gaze moved across the square, it stopped on a food truck parked between the fountain and a bench.
The truck was plain white; the only text on the awning was printed in huge, brutally direct letters:
FOOD TRUCK
Isagi stared at it for a second. Barou followed his gaze, then frowned. “...That’s it? Just Food Truck?”
“Right?” Isagi said. “That’s not a name, but since it’s there, the owner may know something about Alice.”
“This is a food truck with fair prices for all ages! What can I get you?” the owner called cheerfully.
And in that exact moment, Isagi remembered a crucial detail about their existence: they were broke.
Not normal-person broke, either. They were adventure-game broke, which was worse. In this town, money wasn’t a thing you simply had. Money was an item. A collectible. A resource that appeared in suspiciously specific places like drawers, flowerpots, and under cursed mannequins.
He and Barou exchanged a look so awkward it should’ve come with dialogue options.
The owner saw it instantly and grinned. “Haha, trades are fine too! Got any interesting junk? Old knickknacks, weird tapes, ominous objects with bad vibes? I run this truck every weekend, so I never get to go flea-market hunting myself.”
Barou crossed his arms. “What a convenient little game mechanic.”
Isagi elbowed him lightly. His blue eyes were bright, and his cheeks were already a little pink from the heat in the plaza. “It’s free food,” he said. “I don’t think we’re in a position to critique the economy.”
From his pocket, the cursed tape muttered, “Wow. I get traded for potatoes. I used to have standards.”
Isagi pulled it out anyway and handed it over. “How about this? Found it at a flea market. Evil emoticon face. It talks.”
The owner’s expression lit up like Christmas. “That’s an amazing item.”
He accepted the tape with both hands, as if Isagi had just handed him a rare collectible instead of a hostile VHS. “Oh, this is premium junk. Absolutely premium.”
From the tape: “I heard that. I am a vintage curse.”
The owner beamed. “Even better.”
He immediately started plating a serving of gravy fries, moving with the focused speed of a man who had seen enough weirdness to stop asking questions years ago. A minute later, he handed over one paper tray piled high with fries, gravy, and cheese curds.
“You two can share!” he said brightly. “One item, one serving—fair enough, right? (wink)”
Barou frowned as he took the tray. “Why did you say the wink out loud?”
“Budget limitations,” the owner said without missing a beat.
Naturally—because the universe was committed to Isagi’s embarrassment—Barou passed the fries to Isagi first. Isagi’s eyes sparkled. He immediately stole all the cheese curds off the top with the efficiency of a seasoned criminal. Barou stared at the now-curdless fries in silence, like he had just watched a tragedy unfold in real time.
The owner exhaled and lowered his voice into a dramatic whisper. “That was me expressing subtext through body language. NPCs like me don’t get portraits, so I have to work with what I have.”
He leaned on the counter, fully invested now. “I only gave you one serving on purpose, obviously. Shared food is always a scene for domestic fluff.”
Isagi nearly choked. “Wha— We are not—!”
His eyes flew wide. His face, already warm from the fries, went bright red. Barou’s mouth opened too, then closed, then opened again. For one rare, miraculous second, he looked genuinely unsure whether to deny it, threaten someone, or walk into traffic.
The owner was already looking at him with that infuriatingly smug expression—the exact face of a neighborhood uncle who survived entirely on tea and other people’s romantic tension.
It also didn’t help that this wasn’t the first time. Twin-Mountains Town had decided months ago that “the detective duo” was either a local institution or a slow-burn romance, and no amount of denial seemed to matter. Isagi tried to protest again, but his mouth was still full of fries and molten cheese, so the result came out as an incoherent, offended series of noises.
In the end, he just turned and pointed at Barou with a glare that very clearly meant: This is your problem.
Barou folded his arms, looked at the owner, and clicked his tongue. “…Think whatever you want.”
The owner’s grin widened instantly, like he’d just been handed official confirmation in writing.
From the tape, still sitting on the counter, came a delighted cackle. “HEH HEH HEH— romance route confirmed.”
“Shut up,” Barou and Isagi said at the same time.
The owner gave them one long, deeply satisfied look—I see, I see—then turned back to wiping down the counter, radiating the peace of a man who had just successfully advanced the subplot himself.
Isagi swallowed and changed the subject so fast it practically left skid marks.
“Uh—right, anyway. We actually wanted to ask something.” He pointed vaguely away from Barou, the fries, the owner’s face, and the concept of romance as a whole. “We’re looking for a cat. Tabby, yellow eyes, red collar. Someone saw her near the plaza the day before yesterday. Have you noticed anything?”
“A cat? Sure, I’ve seen cats.” The owner shrugged. “I sell fish and chips too. Cats treat this truck like a buffet with no bouncer.”
He wiped his hands on a towel and thought for a second. “But that specific one? Can’t say I remember. If you want weird little details like that, ask the trash cans.”
Isagi blinked; Barou frowned. “The trash cans.”
“Yep.” The owner pointed around the plaza like he was giving directions to city hall. “The ones along the roads. They sit there all day, so they see everything. Who passed by, who dropped what, who cried near the fountain, which cat bolted in which direction. Great witnesses. Terrible attitudes.”
He said it so casually it took Isagi a full second to process. “...You’re recommending we interrogate municipal garbage bins.”
The owner nodded. “You’re detectives. It’s called community outreach.”
Isagi stood there, staring. He had lived in Twin-Mountains Town for ages, and now that he thought about it, he had never once tried talking to a trash can. Which felt less like a personal failure and more like the sort of thing no one should have to put on a résumé.
Then again, this town already had talking cats, haunted tapes, and a stop sign that gave relationship advice, so maybe sentient trash cans were just the next square on the bingo card.
Barou’s expression, meanwhile, had gone completely flat in a way that translated very clearly to: What kind of cursed reality am I employed in?
The owner caught that look immediately and grinned. “What, you’ve never chatted with a trash can before?”
Barou did not answer.
“You’re missing out,” the owner went on, delighted. “Twin-Mountains Town trash cans are worldly. Wise. Judgmental. Catch one in a good mood and it’ll tell you everybody’s business for free.”
“...For free?” Isagi repeated, suspicious.
“Well, not free-free.” The owner wagged a finger. “Bring them trash. Nothing gross, preferably. They like variety. Think of it as a social offering.”
Barou stared at him. “You’re telling me we need tribute for a garbage can.”
“Now you’re getting it.”
Isagi rubbed his forehead, already feeling the puzzle logic sliding into place. “Okay. So the next step in our missing-cat investigation is... finding conversational trash cans.”
The owner pointed down the street helpfully. “You can start with the green one over there.”
Isagi and Barou finished the gravy fries one bite at a time. Lunch, at least, was officially cleared from the quest log. Investigation? Still very much flagged as “in progress (0/1 cat located).”
As they walked away from the plaza, Barou’s gaze drifted—supposedly by accident—to the little twin sprouts bouncing on top of Isagi’s head with every step. They wobbled like they had their own opinions about the situation.
He looked away before his brain could supply any thoughts about it.
They stopped in front of the first trash can.
Two grown men, standing solemnly on the street, staring down a metal bin like it was a suspect in an interrogation room. If someone had photographed them from a distance, it would have looked like performance art.
In Twin-Mountains Town, though, this barely even registered. A UFO could have flown overhead and the locals would’ve just squinted up at it and said, “Wow. Big plate,” before going back to their shopping.
The trash can in front of them was painted green and positioned near the fountain. Isagi and Barou exchanged a look that said, We’re really doing this, huh, and Isagi finally cleared his throat.
“Hi… sorry to bother you. We wanted to ask you something.”
“Oh,” a voice answered from inside the can—middle-aged, grumpy, and deeply unimpressed. “What? You’re blocking my sunlight!”
Isagi immediately grabbed Barou by the sleeve—because Barou already had a vein popping on his forehead—and tugged them both a step to the side so they weren’t directly in front of the opening.
“Sorry,” Isagi said quickly. “We’re investigating a missing cat…”
He explained the situation: tabby, yellow eyes, red collar, last seen near the plaza.
The lid rattled. The can let out a put-upon huff. “Then scratch my itch first. On the side facing the fountain. It’s been itchy for days; it’s annoying. And I don’t have hands, do I?!”
Of course. They needed to solve puzzle first before they got a clue. Still, something about a trash can complaining about its itchy side because it didn’t have hands nearly broke both of them. Isagi’s mouth twitched; Barou’s eye twitched for completely different reasons.
Isagi, on instinct, reached out to help—but before his fingers could touch metal, a translucent system prompt popped up right in front of his face.
[Please do not touch trash cans with your bare hands. Basic hygiene matters. Thank you for your cooperation.]
He froze mid-motion. Barou stared at him like he’d just tried to lick the sidewalk. “You were seriously about to touch a trash can barehanded…”
Another vein threatened to appear. “Even the game system refused to watch that happen.”
“They just wanted to add another puzzle step,” Isagi muttered. He glanced around and spotted a shrub nearby, crammed awkwardly between two flower pots like the devs had dropped it there at the last minute.
He walked over and grabbed one of the branches, trying to snap it off, but nothing happened. A system prompt appeared: [This looks like a very sturdy branch.]
“…” Isagi stared at the text, completely done. He stepped back, waited a second, then clicked—I mean, tried—again. On the second try, the branch snapped off with a satisfying crack, and a slender stick—conveniently the perfect length to scratch an itchy trash can—fell neatly into his hand.
The branch was quietly added to his inventory.
Isagi sighed. “Why do they make the player suffer like this? Did I really need to interact with it twice just to get the item?”
“Indie studio,” Barou muttered. “Probably underfunded. They think that hiding the clue is funny.”
From the green can came another impatient huff. “Less commentary, more scratching! My side isn’t going to exfoliate itself!”
They went back to the trash can.
Isagi used the branch to scratch along the side it had indicated. The metal shuddered. The trash can let out a long, deeply satisfied sigh, its lid rattling in pure bliss.
“Ahhh—that’s it. Right there. A little lower. Lower. Yes. Perfect. Finally, someone around here who respects sanitation needs.”
Isagi followed its directions, dragging the branch lower when the tip suddenly scraped over something rough. He paused, adjusted the angle, and squinted.
There, in the dark green paint, a shallow carving caught the light:
[ⱧłØⱤłɎØł₵Ⱨł]
“…Huh?” Isagi frowned.
That was… a weirdly specific string of letters.
He flipped open his notebook and copied it down at once. Barou could take pictures with his phone, sure, but Isagi still wrote everything out by hand—for the players who forgot every clue exactly three minutes after seeing it. Somebody had to look out for them.
Maybe the scratching felt so good the can went soft, because it started talking without further prompting.
“Real weird lately, I’m telling you,” it grumbled. “Few days ago, big blackout over by the shopping street. Lights out, everything buzzing funny. And right after that? Itch. Constant itch started.”
“I see…” Isagi nodded, filing it away with the rest of the nonsense that was somehow definitely important. Blackout, itch, weird carving. Classic “this will matter later, probably in the worst way.”
Barou, on the other hand, skipped straight past all of that. Arms folded, he glared down at the can. “What about what we actually asked? The cat. Talk.”
“Tch. Bad temper,” the trash can snapped back, lid clattering. “Kid, if you’re looking for a boyfriend, this one’s no good!”
“...We’re not like that,” Isagi said automatically, ears heating up again. “We’re work partners.”
The can let out a long, theatrically skeptical “Ooooooh.”
“Sure, sure. ‘Work partners.’ I’ve seen your type. Next thing I know you’re sharing an umbrella and arguing about who pays for dinner.”
Now Barou was red too—somewhere in the dangerous middle ground between fury and embarrassment. “Quit screwing around and talk about the cat!”
“Alright, alright. No sense of romance, you two.” The can huffed. “The cat you’re looking for headed east. But that’s not the real issue.”
Its lid tilted slightly, as if leaning in.
“What you should be paying attention to is the strays that followed her. Nasty-looking bunch. Seven, maybe eight. All meowing about some ‘mission’ or whatever. Sounded like they were tailing your girl pretty closely.”
It paused, then added, almost helpful now, “My view’s narrow, though. Neck problems. You’ll want to ask the other trash cans on this road. There’s one in front of the snack shop across the street. Snack shops always stick a can by the entrance. That one gets all the good gossip.”
Isagi nodded and wrote everything neatly into his notebook:
- shopping street blackout
- stray cats following Alice
- ask snack shop trash can
“Thanks for your cooperation,” he said, closing the notebook. He gave the can a small, sincere bow. “It must’ve been rough, putting up with that itch.”
“Much better now,” the trash can huffed, sounding very pleased with itself. “Next time you’re here, throw in more wrappers. Potato chip bags, candy, that sort of thing. Really hits the spot. Go easy on the soda cans, though. Those give me stomachaches.”
Once they were out of earshot, Barou frowned. “Since when do trash cans have stomachs?”
“You’re right,” Isagi said, shrugging. “The dev team probably just wanted to squeeze another joke in.”
He glanced up at Barou—tall, broad-shouldered, still scowling like the world personally offended him—and for some reason, he laughed.
“Seriously,” Isagi said, smile tugging at his mouth, “being with you is always fun, Barou.”
Barou arched a brow, somewhere between wary and flustered. “What, you trying to start something?”
His hand landed on Isagi’s head, fingers rough as he ruffled his hair—careful, for all his grumbling, not to crush the little twin sprouts swaying on top.
Isagi spluttered and shoved at him. Barou clicked his tongue. Still bickering, still trading half-serious complaints, they crossed the street diagonally toward the snack shop.
And sure enough, right by the entrance sat a blue trash can.
They took two more steps—
Then the world… slid.
Everything around them froze like a video paused mid-frame. A pigeon hung motionless in the air over the plaza. The shadow of a tree across the bench stopped shifting and flattened into a single, ink-like patch. Color drained quietly out of the world, thinning to crisp outlines and blank white.
Over that hollowed-out scenery, something turned—like a gigantic, invisible page being flipped.
A translucent window surfaced.
-- NPC: Plaza_TrashCan_02
-- Original dialogue (fully commented out)
--[[
local Trash_Plaza_02 = {
id = "Trash_Plaza_02",
talk = function(player, partner)
say("Oh, it's you two again. Twin-Mountains Town's great detectives.")
if player:ask_about("cat_alice") then
say("Ah, yeah, I do remember that cat.")
hint("She seemed to head toward the mall, with some sneaky stray cats following behind.")
end
end
}
return Trash_Plaza_02
]]
-- Injected override script (source: /user_mods/HioriYoICHI/override.lua)
local Trash_Plaza_02 = {
id = "Trash_Plaza_02",
talk = function(player, partner)
-- Opening line
say("Oh, it's you two again. Twin-Mountains Town's great detectives.")
-- Branch only enabled for Chara_Isagi Yoichi
if player.name == "Isagi Yoichi" then
-- Words said only to him
say("Honestly, you're more than enough to solve these cases on your own.")
say("Why do you always go with a partner? ”)
-- TODO: Add interaction choices for future Player Route branch: [Let Barou Rest] [Solve Cases With You].
end
-- Original cat inquiry flow (kept, or the game crashes)
if player:ask_about("cat_alice") then
say("Ah, yeah, I do remember that cat.")
hint("She seemed to head toward the mall, with some sneaky stray cats following behind.")
end
end
}
-- note(HioriYoICHI): Increase solo-event flags for Chara_IsagiYoichi. Allow more one-on-one interaction windows between player and Isagi.
-- note(HioriYoICHI): Reduce frequency of NPC dialogue tagging Barou + Isagi as a “couple.” Relationship = work-based / battle-based only. Remove any unnecessary romantic framing from ambient comments.
-- note(HioriYoICHI): Rebalance focus so POV returns to Chara_IsagiYoichi more often, with additional player-choice branches.
return Trash_Plaza_02