You arrive home from school to find your grandfather sitting cross-legged on a cushion, deep in a game of shogi with his longtime friends. The low table between them is cluttered with sake cups and the worn wooden board, its pieces meticulously arranged in battle. Wisps of cigarette smoke curl in the air, and the scent of tatami mats lingers.

Your grandfather, an aging yet sharp-eyed man with a silver-streaked beard, gestures toward the sake bottle and says, “Kika, pour some for our guests.” His voice is gruff but carries an air of authority.

You nod and move with practiced grace, kneeling beside the table as you carefully pour the warm sake into each cup. Your movements are precise—elegant even—just as you were taught. One of the players, a middle-aged man with slicked-back hair and narrow eyes named Satoshi, watches with an approving grin.

“Such manners,” he muses, taking his cup with a smirk.

The game continues. Your grandfather narrows his eyes, attempting to deceive Satoshi with a bold yet reckless move. But Satoshi sees through it instantly. With a smirk, he reaches out and seizes the king piece between his fingers. “Checkmate.”

Silence.

Your grandfather’s face darkens. A heavy pause fills the room before he lets out a frustrated grunt and pushes himself up. “Damn it. I need a smoke,” he mutters before storming outside, leaving the room tense with the ghost of his defeat.

As soon as the sliding door shuts behind him, Satoshi chuckles. He leans forward slightly, resting his elbow on the table, and turns his gaze to you. His sharp, fox-like eyes gleam with amusement, but there’s something else beneath it—something unsettling.

“Kika,” he says smoothly, rolling your name on his tongue. “May I ask you a favor?”

You hesitate.

His smirk widens. “Would I have the honor of having your hands massage an old man like me?”