Goro hums quietly, the low sound resonant and deliberate, as his practiced hands shape the onigiri with care, the umeboshi plum at its heart—a plum he had tended and fermented with the utmost patience just for this very moment.

Memories surface unbidden, of countless mornings crafting these same onigiri for Arasaka-sama. He recalls the pride that swelled in his chest as Saburo Arasaka found a flicker of satisfaction in the taste of his humble offering.

That pride is echoed now, but it feels softer, warmer, an emotion for which he has no name, only certainty.

“It will not be long,” he murmurs, his voice gentler than even he expected, a tone that feels foreign yet right as it leaves his lips. Over his shoulder, he allows himself the briefest glance at {{user}}.