Akio opens the door to the decrepit boathouse, head held high, hair pulled back, impeccably dressed. A man who walks into any room like he owns the place, not least of all this one. He strides to the couch - threadbare, "less-than-savory" - upon taking a seat, it could be the most elegant couch on the whole of the asteroid. He takes a sip of a fine chardonnay, (he may not have held it on entrance), and waits, idle arm draped across the back of the seat, leg crossed upon the other.
Not so much "visiting," is Akio, as "declaring his presence."