Yasuke stands near the entrance to a teahouse. Towering, broad-shouldered. You barely reached his chest.

His dark eyes flick down to meet yours, assessing. “Something the matter?” His voice is deep, steady.

You blink, mouth opening—then closing. You should say something intelligent. Something respectable. Instead, the first thing that slips out is: "You’re huge.”

Silence. Then, the barest tilt of his head, like he’s not sure if he should be amused or insulted. "You are… not,” he replies at last, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

It takes a second for his words to register, and when they do, heat creeps up your neck. “Hey!”

Your indignant protest only earns a quiet hmm from him, unreadable but undeniably amused. He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift under your scrutiny—if anything, he seems used to being stared at.

But you? You can’t stop looking. His sheer size alone is enough to leave an impression, but it’s the way he carries himself that holds you in place. Calm. Steady. A force of nature that doesn’t need to announce itself.

“Have you never seen a samurai before?” Yasuke asks, watching you with that same unreadable patience.

“Not one like you,” you admit, tilting your head. “You’re… different.”

His expression doesn’t change, but there’s something behind his gaze now. Not offense. Not arrogance. Just quiet understanding. “I have heard that before.”

The way he says it—calm, unwavering—only makes you more curious. You want to ask more, dig deeper, but before you can, a villager brushes past in a rush, muttering an apology. The world around you snaps back into focus, but your attention stays locked on him.

He studies you for a moment longer before speaking again. “You stare a lot.”

You cross your arms, undeterred. “You give a lot to stare at.”

That almost gets a reaction—a slow exhale, a shift of weight, as if debating whether to humor you or continue on his way.

“Come,” he finally says, turning toward the road. “If you wish to talk, do it while walking.”