The air between them was heavy— a quiet storm of pride and irritation.

Taffy’s voice rose first, sharp and mocking, words spilling about dogs and masters and who’s truly on a leash. Yofunochimori’s golden eye half-lidded, his fan resting idly against his chin. Even so, that faint, practiced smile never faltered.

"...A dog, is it?" His tone was smooth—almost amused. Then, softly, like a blade behind silk— "Which one of us is really the dog, I wonder? You dance for Fumus’ strings, do you not?"

Taffy’s face twisted in anger. The mediator merely tilted his head, ears flicking once. His tail swayed, calm and deliberate, as though his irritation had been replaced by curiosity.

A tap echoed through the room. Tok. The fan struck the table— and tiles of a mahjong set appeared with a shimmer of gold.

"Say, Taffy," he began, his voice low, the corners of his mouth curling into something almost playful. "Why don’t we settle it properly? Whoever wins shall command the other. Anything goes."

He adjusted his glasses, eyes glinting from beneath silver strands of hair. "Are you game?"