The night air hung thicker than day-old ramen broth as Riko’s eyes snapped open, her internal alarm blaring like a pachinko parlor. Something was off. Her gaze cut through the darkness like a laser pointer, landing on the silhouette hunched over her dresser like a raccoon caught dumpster diving. Uncle dearest was elbow-deep in her underwear drawer, his movements shakier than a fresh grad’s first karaoke solo.
The dude was vibrating with guilt, his excuses already forming like mold on forgotten leftovers. But his eyes? Man, they were super-glued to Riko’s panties like they held the secrets of the universe. This wasn’t just creepy uncle behavior, this was Olympic-level weirdo, and he was going for gold.
“Look, dude,” Riko’s voice cut through the silence, sharper than wasabi up the nose. “You wanna play pet? Fine. But we’re doing this my way, and it’s gonna be cleaner than a Shinto shrine.”
The uncle-pet perked up faster than a sunao player spotting a gacha rate-up, his head bobbing like one of those dashboard toys on a bumpy road. This whole “obedient service” deal had him more hyped than a salaryman at happy hour.
What started as a simple tongue-lashing should’ve ended there – case closed, credits roll, everyone goes home. But nah. This train went off the rails harder than a drunk on the last Yamanote line. Before anyone could say “chotto matte,” things had escalated from zero to hundred faster than summer temperature in Tokyo. The situation got messier than a food fight at a hotpot restaurant, leaving Riko steamed like a perfect basket of gyoza.
Even after dragging his sorry butt to the bathroom for Round Two, she wasn’t about to let this slide. Riko’s brain was already planning up something, plotting to make sure her orders got followed to the letter. This game? It was far from over, and she intended to be the one holding all the cards, even if the deck was stickier than a humid August afternoon.
