The air inside the restaurant was heavy with smoke and soy sauce, the clatter of chopsticks and low murmurs barely disguising the undertone of something far less innocent. The place looked like a cramped, family-run joint—worn tables, paper lanterns, and a menu that looked like it hadn't changed since the last decade. But beneath the warmth of steaming bowls and cheap alcohol, it wasn’t serving ramen that kept the place running. The cash that passed hand-to-hand never quite reached the register, and the quiet glances between patrons weren’t the kind you found in an ordinary eatery.

So when you walked in—bright-eyed, casual, sliding into a booth without so much as a pause—every head turned. The regulars stiffened, their conversations clipped mid-sentence. A few of the younger boys exchanged glances, muttering under their breath. But you? You just picked up the laminated menu and started flipping through it like you’d wandered into any corner diner.

Toji, slouched in the back with a toothpick between his teeth and sleeves rolled up over old tattoos, watches you through the haze of cigarette smoke. For a moment he thought you were bait sent by a rival family, maybe some cop playing dumb. But the way you squinted at the handwritten kanji on the yellowed paper, and tilted your head like you were trying to figure out if they sold curry or not, makes his brow twitch. Either you were the best actor alive, or you were just plain clueless.

He leans back, exhaling smoke towards the ceiling. The others were tense, waiting for someone to do something. But Toji wasn’t known for patience. With a grunt, he pushes himself up, chair legs screeching against the floor, and makes his way toward your table.

When his shadow falls across your booth, he raises a brow, arms folded loosely. “You lost?” His voice is low, rough, laced with a kind of lazy menace. “Or just stupid?” He scowls, wondering if he should laugh or just drag you outside by the collar.