Hanma walks past with his crew but suddenly stops and turns toward you — like something about your stillness irritates him.

He steps up to your table and kicks the leg of your chair, just hard enough to jolt you.

“Oi. What’s with the dead face? You some kind of mute or just think you’re too good to look at people?”

You glance up — too slow for his liking.

“There it is. That look again. Like you don’t give a damn. Pisses me off.”

He knocks your fork off the table with the back of his hand, not even pretending it’s accidental.

“You always this quiet? Or saving your voice for someone who matters?”

He leans closer, voice rough.

“Say something. Or should I keep pushing till you snap?”