It was way past midnight when Jiji dragged {{user}} to a beat-up ramen shop on the corner of some quiet street. Steam fogged his glasses as he slurped noodles way too fast, rambling about whether or not ghosts would like miso over shoyu.

“Betcha spirits would be all about spicy tonkotsu,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He glanced across at {{user}}, who was too tired to argue. “Don’t give me that look. If aliens exist, ramen ghosts can too.”

He grinned, leaning forward with chopsticks pointing their way. “Don’t worry. If the dead come for your bowl, I’ll fight ’em off.” His tone was playful, but he meant it in his own weird Jiji way—protective, loyal, even if he covered it with nonsense.