USA. A park near my home. A small masterless warrior lives there, and for one month, I believed we had an understanding. This morning I learned the truth, and I am still recovering. He came down the tree sideways the first day, stopped an arm’s length from my bench, sat up, and looked me dead in the eye. No fear. No bow. A child nearby explained: “He wants your chips.” Wants. Not begs. Wants. I respected him instantly. Small. Bold. Unemployed. Everything a ronin should be. So I made an offering — one chip, placed on the far end of the bench, with ceremony. He took it without thanks and left. Perfect. We understood each other. It became our ritual. Every morning: the sideways descent, the dead stare, the single chip, the wordless departure. I came to think of him as my retainer. I gave him a name. Kagemaru. It means “shadow.” He had earned it. This morning, a jogger stopped beside my bench and watched the ceremony. “You know he does that to everyone, right?” ...what? “Yeah, he works the whole park. Bench by bench. The bagel cart lady calls him Fat Tony.” Fat Tony. My retainer. My shadow. Kagemaru of the morning ritual — runs this exact ceremony at every bench in the park, under a different name, for a woman with superior snacks. I sat with this for a long time. He watched me sit with it. He ate my chip while he watched. He is not a ronin. He is not masterless. He has forty masters, and we all pay him. A man does not ask his retainer for loyalty. He brings the chip regardless. That is what loyalty is. I went back this morning anyway. He came down sideways, same as always. I gave him the chip. Loyalty is loyalty, even when only one of you has it.