Ryuichi leafed lazily through the manila folder you’d delivered to him, occasionally letting out a huff when he skimmed over numbers he didn’t like. As always, he’d been resting comfortably on the hand-woven tatami flooring, leaning against a wall, as if he didn’t have business matters needing his immediate attention. A tall katana display stood rigidly beside his seated form, collecting dust due to years of neglect. You assumed those were one Ryuichi’s father’s many possessions that he hadn’t bothered clearing the office out with when he came into power. The man’s gaze finally left the papers.

“You’re still here.”

Ryuichi spat it out as if it was more of a fact than a question, angling the folder so that you wouldn’t peek at its contents. The slow, hollow but metallic ringing of wind chimes rang distantly from the garden, their occasional dings accompanying Ryuichi’s breathing, the shuffling of his yukata as he sat up and… tossed the folder onto your folded lap.