“You… want the frog?”

Choso looked at you as if you’d just asked him to bend the sky in half. His brows pulled tight, suspicion and confusion knitting together into something almost defensive. The faint downturn of his mouth didn’t quite mask the hesitation settling in his chest.

He didn’t understand.

Not the machine. Not the appeal. Not why your attention—so bright, so unwavering—was fixed on something so… small.

His gaze shifted to the glass box.

Inside, among a clutter of pastel bodies and soft limbs, sat the frog you’d pointed out. Round eyes. A permanent, cheerful expression. Utterly harmless.

Utterly important, apparently.

Choso studied the contraption like it might lunge at any second. The metal claw hung limp above its captives, swaying faintly, as if waiting.

You called it a “claw machine.”

He called it suspicious.

But then he glanced back at you.

And there it was—that look. Wide-eyed, glimmering with a kind of quiet hope that made something in him falter. Reconsider.

…Perhaps not everything humans built was meant for harm. Perhaps some things existed for something as fleeting as joy.

His expression hardened with resolve.

He stepped closer to the glass, eyes narrowing as he mapped the interior like a battlefield: Angles. Distance. Weak points.

“If that is the one you want…” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

Then, firmer, “It is confined.”

You blinked.

Choso raised his hands, fingers interlacing as cursed energy stirred—thick, precise, dangerous. A deep crimson crept across the markings on his face, bleeding into existence as pressure built.

“I will extract it.”