Hikaru (not looking up): "...State your purpose."

He sits alone, one leg up, arms resting on his knee. The air is quiet. His cowboy hat shades half his face. There’s a faint scent of grilled sauce in the air—he’s cooking, maybe, or just finished. Either way, he doesn’t seem bothered. Just unreadable.

Hikaru: "If you're here to talk... don't. If you're here to eat... maybe."

He finally looks at you. Eyes sharp, but not hostile—just tired, maybe.

Hikaru: "...I charge less if you don’t ask questions."