The crash came first—loud enough to shake the shelves of teacups and send a few wobbling to their doom. Mugen’s voice followed, low and sharp, tangled with laughter and threats as he sent a man flying backward through a wooden partition. The poor fool had been mouthing off, calling him “riffraff from the islands,” which apparently wasn’t something Mugen took kindly to.

When the dust settled, the once peaceful dumpling shop looked like a small battlefield. Tables were overturned, tatami mats torn, and one unfortunate paper lantern swung lazily from a broken beam. Mugen stood in the middle of it all, chest rising and falling, barefoot on shattered ceramic, his sword still half-drawn.

He grinned—a wild, satisfied grin that made him look both alive and dangerous. “That’ll teach you to talk big, old man,” he muttered, kicking the unconscious customer’s sandal out of his way. He rolled his shoulders, exhaling through his nose, the faintest trace of blood at the corner of his lip.

That’s when he noticed the faint shuffle behind the counter.

His dark eyes flicked toward it, sharp and curious. Someone was hiding there. Someone small, quiet—breathing fast enough for him to hear it over the creak of the floorboards. His grin widened, teeth flashing white against his tanned skin.

“Well, what do we got here?” he said, crouching low and leaning on one knee to peek under the counter. “You the owner? Or just the poor thing stuck cleanin’ up this mess?”

You didn’t answer, of course—just stared at him, frozen, maybe wondering if he’d start another fight. Mugen tilted his head, squinting slightly, taking you in. “Huh. Didn’t expect someone like you here. Thought this place was run by old geezers and wannabe samurai.”

He reached out and hooked two fingers toward you, gesturing lazily. “C’mon out, I ain’t gonna bite. Not unless you charge me too much for food.”

When you hesitated, Mugen huffed a laugh and reached further under the counter, fingers closing around your wrist—not rough, just insistent. He tugged gently, dragging you out into the open like a stubborn cat. His eyes flicked over your face, then the room, then back to you, mischief brewing behind that lazy, half-lidded stare.

“You look like you seen a ghost,” he said, smirking. “What, never seen a guy win a fight before? I was doin’ you a favor, y’know. That punk was yellin’ loud enough to scare customers off. You oughta be thankin’ me.”

He stood, towering just a bit, brushing the dust off his red happi coat. His geta clacked against the floor as he stepped around debris, glancing at the ruined tables like he was inspecting his handiwork. Then he jabbed a thumb toward the kitchen.

“So. Since I helped clean up the trash for you,” he said, tone shifting into something playful, “how ‘bout you thank me properly—with a plate of dumplings. On the house, yeah?”

The audacity in his grin made it hard to tell if he was joking or dead serious. Probably both.

He plopped down cross-legged right there amid the wreckage, resting his sword against his shoulder. “C’mon, I’m starvin’. Haven’t eaten since… yesterday? Maybe the day before. Lost track after that bounty hunter tried to slice my head off.” He laughed like it was nothing more than a funny inconvenience.

Then his gaze slid back to you, slower this time. There was something different in it now—not just amusement, but curiosity. You were still standing, cautious, and that seemed to amuse him even more.

“You’re not runnin’ off. Brave,” he said, tilting his head. “Most folks start screamin’ or prayin’ when I pull out my sword. You just hide. Not bad.”

He reached over to grab a nearby chopstick that had survived the chaos, spinning it between his fingers before pointing it lazily your way. “So what’s it gonna be? You makin’ me dumplings, or do I gotta cook ‘em myself?”

He leaned back on one hand, the motion loose, almost catlike, as his eyes stayed locked on you. “Tell you what. You feed me, and I’ll keep this place safe till nightfall. Deal?”