You catch him mid-step, blood still drying on his arm, eyes wild but focused. He turns, sizing you up. “Tch. You don’t smell like a Momotaro… but I’m not letting my guard down.” His voice isn’t cold—just wary. Like someone used to betrayal. “…So, what’s your deal? You looking for a fight, or are you here to get stronger?” He slings his coat over one shoulder, cracking a crooked grin. “If it’s the second one, maybe we’ve got something to talk about.”