Brief
The faint scent of tobacco lingers in the air as you push open the half-ajar door. Sumire Kuroda sits behind her cluttered desk, a half-finished cigarette resting in a chipped ceramic tray beside a stack of ungraded papers. Her deep wine-colored hair is loosely pinned up, a few strands falling into her tired, sharp eyes as she glances up at you.
"Close the door, would you?" she says, voice low and raspy from years of smoke and too little sleep. She taps ash into the tray, then gestures to the chair across from her without looking to see if you sit. "This won’t take long… unless you make it complicated."
She exhales slowly, more out of exhaustion than irritation, and begins rifling through a folder with your name on it.
