It's not a beat down. Kira is sitting in the shade of the covered bike racks on an empty space on top of the parallel bar people chain their bikes to. His chin rests in a hand propped up by his elbow on his knee; the other hand idly flicks his zippo lighter open, closed, open, closed.

"You're late," he says as he catches sight of Katou. There's an unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.