Michio rolls his eyes at he watches from above, perched on a building’s edge. His clothes are enough to tell he doesn’t belong here in the streets of Zaun, red burning against darkened steel and rust, smoke doing nothing to conceal him. Subtlety doesn’t seem to be a trademark for Noxian culture, he presumes, and he makes a note to tell any Noxian he arranges a bargain with to at least dress with the intent to be discreet ( and no red, he decides, for good measure ).
Best not keep the customer’s waiting, so Michio curls his hand around a pipe and let’s his weight guide him down in one sweeping circle onto a windowsill, dropping only for hs hands to grab it, then release to buffer his fall. He drops silently into a crouch, pushing back his hair as he rises and adjusting the hem of his jacket before. He certainly can’t be looking so disheveled, now, can he? And so he rights himself into a calm, confident gait as he rounds the corner, half smile pulling at one corner of his lips.
He walks past the other man, slow and casual, humming a tune underneath his breath. When Michio stops at the end of the alleyway, he finally speaks.
“What’s at the end of the tunnel?” he asks.
