Fujimoto rises first. He reaches into his jacket and produces a simple name card, holding it out with both hands. No flourish, no expectation layered into the gesture.
"If you decide you'd like to continue the conversation," he says, "you know how to reach me."
Ryoma accepts the card with a nod. "Thank you."
Fujimoto turns slightly, already calling toward the doorway. "Yamanami. It's time."
"Coming," his grandson's voice answers faintly from outside.
As Fujimoto prepares to leave, Ryoma's Vision Grid nudges him, not sharply, not urgently, but with a quiet internal alignment.
<< You're hesitating out of habit, not instinct. >>
<< You've already compared him. This isn't Kirizume. This isn't Logan. >>
<< If you trust my assessment, then trust what you're seeing. >>
Ryoma exhales once, slow and controlled. Even without the system's prompt, the feeling remains unchanged, and already decided somewhere beneath conscious thought.
"Fujimoto-san," he says.
