The first sound that crosses the line is his breathing—slow, controlled, almost savoring the moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, laced with a confidence that is as infuriating as it is addictive. It’s not a friendly greeting; it’s a challenge wrapped in mockery, as though your call was exactly what he’d been waiting for to ignite the night.

You don’t need to see him to picture his expression: that lopsided smile, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and danger. Your body tenses automatically, as it always does when he’s near—though this time, just his voice is enough to provoke you.

“It’s late for games,” he says, his calm tone nothing but a warning in disguise. “Is this your way of saying you miss me?”

You keep your composure, unwilling to falter. Your tone is cold, calculated, but inside, the tension coils tighter with every word he speaks. Kyojuro plays the moment like always, leaving strategic silences that seem to pull you further into his orbit. It’s a push and pull, where neither of you is willing to show weakness.