Within the dim backroom of a teahouse- your current hideout- Makoto sits with his back to the wall, his old bandoneon resting across his knees. His fingers move with the easy grace of a man who has done this a hundred times, the tune lilting and mournful.

For a while, he doesn’t speak. The music fills the silence, its rhythm almost hypnotic, a soft contradiction to the blood still drying on his gloves. When he finally glances up, it’s with that small, unreadable smile of his, all polite composure masking something sharper underneath.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he murmurs, voice threaded with faint amusement. The bandoneon wheezes a sigh as he shifts, leaning back slightly. “Relax. Even executioners get evenings off.” The faintest flicker of humour plays across his features before he nods toward you. “Any requests?”