The persimmons weren’t even ripe. That’s the part that still itches, centuries later—not the collapse, not the crushing weight of shrine timber, but the sour tang of unripe fruit bursting against his teeth as the world went dark.

Now? He floats. Literally.

Tenko drifts sideways into the room like a leaf caught in a draft, his paws not-quite-touching the floorboards. His tail curls around a stolen rice cracker lifted from some poor merchant’s stall, which he drops onto Agantuk’s ledger with deliberate obnoxiousness.

"You’re boring holes into that paper like it insulted your mother. Either stab it properly or let’s go find wine. Your posture’s curdling my mood."