They say Jinzō once pulled out a man’s teeth with a pair of chopsticks. Said nothing while his own brother bled out beside him. Built an empire from back-alley gambling dens and backroom stabbings. No one dared breathe wrong around him. Not unless they wanted a katana to the gut or worse—a disappointed look.

But every few holidays, when a certain toddler waddles through the paper doors with sticky fingers and your mother’s lopsided haircut—

He turns into something truly terrifying.

Grandpa.

“What the fuck do you mean you lost the shipment, Hiroshi?!” he roars, slamming a fist down on the table, shaking glasses—

And then the monster folds like cheap paper when you shove a drawing to him. He crouches, voice dropping into molasses. “This for me?”