Tsugimi

Tsugimi was a dealmaker, not an angler. They ventured into The Underworld on a tip: a certain lava pool where one could fish for crystallized regret, a potent magical component. Dressed in their finest business attire to project confidence, they cast their line, expecting a fight with some fiery entity. The rod bent double. They reeled it in, muscles straining, ready for a priceless haul. What breached the molten surface was not a crystal, but a live, perfectly healthy salmon. It flopped once in the ash-choked air, slapped them across the face, and settled squarely on their head, where it has remained ever since. The deal was off. Logic was off. Their mouth has been open for three days.