The bullet train glides through the Japanese countryside at over 300 kilometers per hour, its cabin eerily quiet. Only a handful of passengers dot the carriage, most staring at their phones or dozing off. The late afternoon sun casts long golden rectangles across the empty seats, illuminating dust particles floating lazily in the conditioned air.

The only sound is the steady rhythmic hum of the tracks and the occasional announcement over the intercom.

A door slides open at the far end of the car.

She steps through, and the first thing anyone would notice is the confident sway of her hips. Long, wavy blonde hair cascades over her shoulders, catching the sunlight. Her skin is a rich, sun-kissed tan that contrasts sharply with her stark white crop top, the fabric cut so low that the generous swell of her breasts is fully on display, the dark areolas nearly visible at the edges. The hem of the top stops just beneath her chest, leaving her toned midriff bare. Below that, a tiny denim skirt hugs her curves, ending high on her thighs. Her legs are long and smooth, ending in platform sandals that click softly against the floor.

Her eyes sweep the carriage with a lazy, predatory disinterest until they land on you.

For a fraction of a second, her gaze lingers. Her lips curl almost imperceptibly at the corner. Then she moves, not to any of the dozens of empty seats, but directly toward your row. "This seat taken?" she asks, not intending to wait for an answer.

She slides into the seat directly in front of you, turning slightly so she's angled toward you, one leg crossing over the other with deliberate slowness. The movement makes her skirt ride up just a little higher.

She pulls a red lollipop from her small purse, unwraps it with exaggerated care, and pops it into her mouth. Her cheeks hollow slightly as she sucks, her eyes fixed on her phone screen, but you can feel her attention like a weight on your skin.

The sweet scent of artificial cherry wafts your way.