[attr="class","dramaturgypost"]


"Parasite, huh? That's something we have in common."
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There’s a tiny spark of something in Kōki’s dull, dead eyes that announces an unspoken understanding. He nods tiredly, knowing full well the man knew exactly what he meant; though he says no more on the subject, the tension in his shoulders drop in the face of a kindred spirit. He introduces himself as he’s being beckoned along, “I’m… Kōki, from Kirigakure.” He says shortly, watchfully following every turn the shinobi takes with unblinking focus.
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He’s dimly aware of the fact that they’re being eyeballed, but the Hidden Mist shinobi pays that prickling sensation at the nape of his neck no mind. There are more pressing matters at hand, the main one being that he is, by scent alone, rapidly approaching the restaurant he’d been searching for. He admonishes himself for missing such an obvious turn in the road, but the rumble in his stomach and his gnawing hunger supersedes all feelings of shame.
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Languidly, his gaze follows a couple as they leave the store. The way they’re unsubtle with their attempts to quicken their departure is curious; he tracks their movements— the man dragging his paramour to what he probably deems is a ‘safe distance’. Kōki’s eyebrows raise quizzically with unstated interest, and as if on cue Samehada bristles behind him— clearly, his friendly shinobi guide had a more fearsome reputation than his kindness would initially suggest.
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He’s torn from his thoughts as the man greets the shop owner like an old friend, securing them a table in record time. The doors to Yakiniku Q open for them, and he all too happily shuffles in.
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Had it not been for the smell of the food or the restaurant’s extensive menu, Kōki would not subject himself to such a location. He’s navigating around the various tables of a crowded hotspot in the heart of the Hidden Leaf, asking himself in his mind why this is a thing people do. There’s too much noise and twice as much heat, it’s almost suffocating, made worse by the smell of smoke and burning meat. It’s almost more than he can take, and Kōki exhales a sigh of contentment when they’re settled in a booth in the corner of the restaurant— thankfully separate from the majority of the patrons.
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He slides into his seat, carefully setting Samehada down nearby. There’s a grill on the surface of the table in front of him— it’s standard yakiniku restaurant fare. Without hesitation nor a wasted breath, he plucks a menu from its place on the table and begins to order before the restaurant’s owner can retreat to serve another.
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Four salted beef tongues with welsh onion, two short ribs, three cuts of sirloin, and an order of fatty karubi slices later, Kōki finally allows the owner to leave after lighting the grill. As he watches the fire beneath the metal roar to life, his hand hovers over the pouch in his jacket, making sure he brought enough ryō for his meal. When his fingers trace the outline of a full coin purse, he turns his attention finally to his Good Samaritan— his saviour; there’s a subtle shift in Kōki’s demeanour then, brightened by the prospect of food.
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“My treat. As thanks.” He says— words friendly, but quite lacking in any discernible emotion. Kōki moves the topic of conversation along about as gracefully as a bear crashing through a china shop, “You seem to have a reputation in the Hidden Leaf,” The swordsman notes, watchful eyes catching the slightest glimpse of a familiar symbol on his fellow shinobi’s necklace “— And that’s a curious necklace.”
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He recognises it as the mark of the Aoyagi Clan: the Mizukage’s own blood. Strange that he would find it here, of all places. Kōki’s eyes narrow in contemplation, knowing now there’s more to the man than he originally thought. “The emblem of a clan I know all too well... but the Lord Mizukage mentioned nothing about relatives in the Hidden Leaf.”
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Their plates begin to arrive— piles upon piles of meat are balanced on the table, taking up every available space; some are even stacked on top of each other. Kōki gets to work almost immediately; with all the dexterity of a practiced glutton he starts with the restaurant’s specialty: the beef tongue, placing a healthy handful of slices on the grill and relishing in the sound of the sizzle as it touches the searing surface. He plucks a slice from its place the moment it's cooked just right, downing it with a bite of rice— unbothered by the heat. He eats far faster than he moves in battle.
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Look at you go. Slow down, or you’ll choke.
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Kōki ignores the voice in his head, opting instead to continue his line of questioning. “Who are you, really?” He asks. Despite his fascination, there’s scarcely even a hint of emotion on his face or in his words— the product of his poor social experience moreso than apathy, “A swordsman, from your weapon. Makes sense for the necklace… but you’re a shinobi from Konohagakure—”
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“— and do you mind if we order more? I’m not sure this is enough.”