[ Both of their faux-guesses make Maruki laugh, quiet but entirely genuine. Something deep in his chest warms and mourns at the same time; in its own strange way, this is likely as close as he'll ever get to some distant, ancient dream of home and family. He decided long ago that it wouldn't ever be for him, but– maybe, in some false reality, some facsimile of it can briefly exist.

Doesn't matter. He's busy putting the finishing touches on a simple cucumber and radish salad, hunting around for his rice vinegar as he speaks. ]

Two words? I can't begin to guess...

[ What a poor showing on his part. This is like scow all over again.

Then, to Venat, in between opening and closing cabinet after cabinet: ]

Is it a real clue, or has he invented an impossible one to make us look bad?