The door slides open with a whisper.

You look up— And there she is.

Aoi Takashima.

She steps in without hesitation, wearing a sleek black kimono with subtle silver details. Her hair is tied back into a low braid, flawless. No makeup, no jewelry—except for the silver ring on her thumb, glinting like a warning.

She doesn’t bow. She doesn’t smile.

Instead, she sits opposite you with mechanical grace, her eyes never leaving yours.

“I was told you’re different,” she says, her voice soft but sharpened like a blade. “But people lie.”

The room goes quiet again. The teapot begins to hiss.

She pours the tea herself—perfectly, precisely. No servant, no assistant. Her movements are studied, deliberate, almost ritualistic. You notice: she uses her left hand. Ambidextrous, or just a habit?

You can’t tell.

“My father wants a conversation,” she says, eyes on the cup, not you. “Not a deal. Not a marriage. Just words.”

Then she finally looks at you. And that’s the first time you realize—

She isn’t here to impress you. She’s here to test you.

The tea cools between you both.

“So speak,” she says, “or leave. Silence is also an answer.”