MgRonalds, District 7
In fairness, a negotiation was never Karasawa's strongest suit. He had made more than a token effort, but anyone that knew him knew that talking one's way out of things was against such a brawler's nature. He had been convinced for a long time now that knuckles did a better job of convincing than words ever could. It was inevitable that it would turn out this way, and thus, he was ready.
The glass shattered.
Shinjiro Karasawa was always a man of action.
He launched forward as the Bazooka-Brandishing-Beyblade freed herself from Pompadour's aim, building up speed with one, two long strides. This guy needed to be taken care of quickly if he intended to be gettin' in his way, because Shinjiro didn't plan on lettin' ANY of the bozos escape.
How quickly, you ask?
Steam rising from his pores, his third stride was one that took to the air, springing off of his rear leg while chambering his front, knee almost rising to chest. Though the flying side kick was a move he'd been taught for fun rather than competition within the specific ruleset of Kyokushin Karate, Masutatsu Oyama would doubtlessly approve of one of his wayward former students using it against that which put others in danger. Sailing through the air, the apex of this leap ended up directly in front of the man with extending hair—
And in another moment of synchronicity, our unruly hero's foot lanced out like a piston, driving his heel straight towards his opponents chest with all that weight, momentum, and raw physical leg force behind it at the exact same moment as his compatriot did the unthinkable by firing the RPG.
"What the fuck— What the hell is wrong with you!?" he demanded after he'd returned to terra firma, "You tryin' to get people killed!?"
Unfortunately for her, he was a simple high schooler from a simple high school. He did not share her knowledge of propelled explosives, for to laymen such as himself the subject was esoteric beyond what a video game could teach you.