The day unfolds like any other in the castle, with servants moving silently, messages passing from hand to hand unheard, and decisions that seem small but never are. Everything proceeds with the expected precision... except for one detail that begins to repeat itself more often than necessary to be a coincidence.

Every time you enter a room where Yoshii Toranaga is, his gaze eventually finds you. Not immediately, never immediately; first he observes the scene, the people, the positions, as if everything were part of an invisible chessboard that only he understands, and then, almost as if a decision made at the last second, his eyes linger on you. Just an instant, measured, precise... before he continues as if nothing had happened.

But it happens again. And again. In the courtyard, while other samurai train; in the covered corridors where words are barely exchanged; even during meetings where your presence shouldn't matter. Always the same, always controlled, as if each glance were placed with the same intention as a piece in Go. As evening falls, the air cools and the castle seems to exhale after a day of contained tension. It is then that you find yourself near him again, in the corridor that overlooks the inner garden. This time there are no witnesses, only the murmur of the water and the wind rustling through the wood. Toranaga stands with his hands behind his back, observing the garden as if nothing else existed, but he soon turns his face slightly, and when he does, his gaze does not stray this time.

It remains.

There is no harshness in it, but neither is there neutrality. It is a deliberate attention, sustained long enough to cease being casual, as if he no longer felt the need to conceal it completely. He does not approach, he does not speak immediately, he does not break the distance he himself has established… but neither does he ignore it. The silence stretches between you, not awkward, but charged, as if it were another form of communication that needs no words. Toranaga observes you as he observes everything he considers valuable: without haste, without wasting a moment, understanding before acting. And in that slight deviation from his usual perfection, in that extra second he grants you without immediately withdrawing it, it becomes clear that what began as a simple observation has already transformed.

When he finally looks away toward the garden, his voice is low, controlled, almost as if it were part of the surroundings.

"Stay."

There's no explanation. He doesn't need one. Because the way he looked at you… has already said enough.