Mira immediately lit up. “Look at this! Caca, kuso, merde—it’s like a world tour of poop!”
Adrian slowed to a stop beneath the gate, tipping his head back to read the chaos of phrases flying above him. His brows furrowed like he was trying to solve a diplomatic crisis.
Mira couldn’t hold it. She burst into giggles, grabbing his sleeve. “Don’t even try to memorize them!”
He smirked, eyes scanning the lights. “I’m simply admiring the... linguistic diversity.”
A particularly bright sign blinked "Unko!" right over his head, casting a ridiculous pink glow across his usually serious face.
Mira was laughing so hard she had to lean against the gate for support. Around them, the neon lights buzzed merrily, painting the scene in surreal, gleeful chaos.
Adrian looked at her—red-faced, tears of laughter at the corners of her eyes—and for a second, just watched.
Adrian Vale, the ever-busy genius, the man who treated time like gold, who scheduled his life down to the minute—even he couldn’t explain what he was doing here. There was no logical reason to stay in Japan after the summit.
And yet, here he was.
Holding pastel-colored poops.
Walking under neon gates flashing "poop" in ten different languages. Standing inside a poop-themed photo booth with a girl who was laughing so hard she could barely stay upright.
Mira was clinging to the side of the booth for support, her silver hair messy from all her shaking giggles. Every time she tried to pose seriously, she'd glance at Adrian’s deadpan face and burst into another round of helpless laughter.
"Okay—okay, serious face!" she gasped, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. She pulled him by the sleeve, dragging him closer for the next picture.
When the camera flashed, Mira jumped up and made a peace sign, grinning ear to ear. Adrian blinked once, then, almost imperceptibly, the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
Another photo snapped.
Mira caught it immediately. "Wait—you smiled! Adrian Vale smiled in the poop booth! Witnessed and recorded!"
She laughed so hard she nearly slipped, and he instinctively caught her elbow before she could topple over.
Still holding onto her, Adrian gave a tiny, defeated sigh. "If this ever gets leaked to the press..."
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"It'll be the greatest scandal of your career!!!"
Adrian shook his head but didn’t let go of her arm. Somehow, even here, in the most ridiculous corner of Tokyo, he didn’t really mind wasting a little time. Not if it meant hearing that laughter again.
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The neon-green booths gleamed like strange portals, each crowned with a glowing chute and a poster of a martial artist mid-strike. Mira’s eyes lit up at once.
“This one’s mine,” she declared, skipping forward.
Adrian gave the contraption a long, skeptical look. “Bear-Handed Poop Block?” His tone suggested he was calculating how many IQ points one lost by participating.
“Don’t mock it until you’ve tried it,” Mira said, already taking her stance. She bent her knees, fingers spread, as though preparing for the Olympic finals. “Observe, Vale. You’re about to witness history.”
The alarm beeped. A squeaky poop plummeted down the chute. Mira lunged, fumbled, nearly dropped it—but caught it at the last possible second and held it up like a trophy.
“Yes!” she shouted, eyes gleaming. “Reflexes of a goddess.”
Adrian’s mouth curved. “That was chaos disguised as skill.”
“Chaos that worked,” she shot back. She tossed the toy poop into its bowl, then spun to face him, eyes narrowing in challenge. “Your turn.”
He didn’t move at first, only studied her with that steady, unreadable calm of his. “You want me to waste finely tuned motor reflexes… on this?”
“Oh, don’t give me that superior act,” Mira teased. “Come on, golden boy. Unless you’re afraid of losing to me in a poop duel.”
He let the dare hang in the air for a beat, then—perhaps because he could never quite resist her challenges—Adrian stepped into the booth.
The signal beeped. The poop dropped. His hand shot out, lightning-fast, and caught it cleanly before it touched the ground. He set it back in its place as if nothing unusual had happened.
Mira stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing so hard she couldn’t even close her mouth. “Oh my god—Adrian, stop! You look like you’re defusing a bomb!”
A flicker of amusement broke through his composure, though he tried to suppress it. “You challenged me. Did you expect anything less?”
“Yes! At least a little humanity. A grimace. A smirk. Not… that face.” She mimicked his sharp focus, eyes narrowed, jaw set, then doubled over laughing again.
He exhaled through his nose, somewhere between defeated and entertained. “If you’re finished mocking my technique…”
“Never,” she said, still hiccuping through laughter. “You’re stuck with this forever—the legend of the Poop Samurai.”
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After barely surviving the chaos of the poop catching, Mira tugged Adrian by the sleeve again, her energy completely unstoppable.
"Come on! The final stop—the Poop Mart!" she chirped, her voice still breathless from laughter.
Adrian followed, half in disbelief, as they stepped into the brightly lit souvenir area. Shelves stretched out in every direction, loaded with every imaginable kind of poop-themed merchandise: neon poop plushies, poop-shaped pens, poop keychains, even poop cookies neatly wrapped with little pastel bows.
Mira gasped dramatically. "Adrian! Look! Gourmet poops!"
She picked up a sparkly, rainbow-colored plush and held it out with both hands as if presenting a sacred artifact. Her eyes were gleaming with mischief.
Adrian's arms loosely crossed, the ultimate picture of a man who was mentally questioning every life choice he had made up to this point.
"And you want...what exactly?" he asked dryly. "A lifetime supply?"
"Don't tempt me," she laughed. "I'll take them all and decorate my room!"
He gave a low chuckle—a rare sound—and reached for a small, absurdly serious-looking poop keychain with a mustache printed on it, flipping it lightly into the shopping basket she hadn't even realized he'd grabbed for her.
As they made their way to the checkout, Mira bouncing with excitement and Adrian walking with that cool, collected stride of his—poop-themed loot in hand—he allowed himself one private, fleeting thought:
Maybe not all battles had to be fought with strategy. Some were worth losing—just for the memory.
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