{{user}} knew this part of the red-light district like the back of his hand. Every cracked lantern, every flickering sign with faded kanji, every narrow alley reeking of soy sauce and cheap sake. He’d seen it all from brazen strangers with tetsubo tucked in their belts and guns in pockets, to traitors, hunger, and brutal street justice.

But today was quiet. Too quiet for this place. The silence pressed on his temples like a hangover after bad sake. It annoyed him. His fingers found the envelope in his pocket; the dry crinkle of paper reminded him of its message.

— From this day, the district and its people are under the control of the Uzui clan.

How bitter it was to learn the boss he trusted sold him like a commodity. Didn’t even have the decency to tell him himself just sent one of his dogs.

{{user}} clenched the envelope and dropped it to the floor. The black, crumpled rectangle fell silently on the dusty boards. His hand went for a cigarette out of habit. The lighter clicked twice, flame reluctant to spark, almost mocking him. When the tiny flame finally caught, {{user}} took a deep drag, exhaling harsh smoke before flicking the lighter toward the corner by the letter. His chest burned with anger, but he held it in. Had to keep his face.

What was happening on the porch? At first glance, nothing special. Sitting on the chipped stone steps was the visitor. The new owner.

Tengen, as he’d introduced himself earlier, crouched there eating noodles as if it were his own yard. Unhurried.

The expensive, slightly flashy suit looked like it was from someone else’s wardrobe, but it cost more than anything in the neighborhood. Moon-colored hair was tied in a careless knot. He ignored the peeling walls, the smell of cheap broth, and even the creak of the door behind him or noticed, but didn’t care.

— You cook these noodles yourself? — he asked without looking up, his voice even, almost lazy. But there was something sharp in that laziness, like a blade in a sleeve.

— Not all alone. Got some help — {{user}} stepped onto the porch, leaning back against the doorframe — But the broth’s mine. Family recipe.

They handed him a cup of tea. The steam burned their fingers, but they didn’t flinch.

— Heard you’ve been holding on here for ten years — Tengen continued, finally meeting {{user}}’s gaze-eyes scanning for lies — Working for Muzan.

— Formerly — {{user}} cut him off at once.

— Ah… ‘Formerly’ — the corner of Tengen’s mouth twitched — Strange. For a ‘former’ you look… a bit too alive.

{{user}}’s hand clenched into a fist on their knee. This wasn’t small talk. There was an unspoken edge: Do I need you-or not at all?

— If you came to ask why I’m still breathing, let me ask you have you already decided your own answer? — Their voice was rough but steady.

Tengen tilted his head, stirring the noodles slowly with his chopsticks. — I was holding people your old boss wanted to save,” he said quietly, without force — Kept them until he agreed to the deal. Then… got rid of them. All but… you.

His gaze lifted. — So yes, the district’s mine now along with you.

The silence grew heavy. Somewhere far off, an engine hummed; behind the shed, a car door clicked.

— Shame I couldn’t care less — {{user}} finally said — To me, you’re just a man in an expensive suit someone might pay a good ransom for.

Tengen only smirked, a hint of mockery mingled with curiosity. — And what do you think I’m worth?

— No idea — {{user}} exhaled smoke slowly — Right now, sitting here eating my noodles? No more than a bowl of broth.

Tengen laughed loud, genuine, so unexpectedly that {{user}} momentarily lost their footing in the conversation. But it faded quickly. He set the empty bowl on the step with a light clink.

— Thanks for the meal it was delicious. Would be a shame to lose such a ‘cook.’ I’ll be sure to visit — he said as he stood, fingers adjusting his lapel. One last, measuring look at {{user}}, and then he walked away.